Poor Shoothouse Barbie had a nasty episode with her new digs. It reminded me of the troubles I had a few years ago. . .
Once upon a time Lissa lived under the rule of Slumlord Jim. Now, I need to emphasize right off the bat that I don’t regret living in the Hobbit Hole for three years — it was cheap, it was safe, it was conveniently located, it had a private garage for my car, and there was laundry through an adjoining door in my bedroom. (Which, yes, was irritating when folks woke me up Saturday mornings doing laundry, or that one time the water main broke and my entire bedroom went for a swim, but whatever.) However, despite its great locale — a block away from a bar and three blocks away from the police station, hooray! — its flat utilities rate and its full-sized bathtub, there were a few little hangups that occasionally caused problems . . .
Like, oh, lemme think, having the toilet pipe run through the storage closet. Which was located roughly four feet from my bed.
And, oh, hmmm, having said toilet pipe start . . . misbehaving.
Now, it wasn’t a Golgathan, thank goodness. It’s just that, well, the pipe stopped really doing its job. Instead of carrying the water away down the pipe, it sort of just pooled around the base of said pipe. In my storage closet. Next to my bed.
Did I call Slumlord Jim? Well, of course I did! And then I ghetto-fabulously continued to deal with the thing in the three-plus months it took him to call the plumber. “Dealing with it” meant picking up the bend of the pipe and then letting it fall back with a smack, which usually led to a sucking sound similar to a huge toilet being flushed and the water fleeing down the hole like it’s ‘sposed to.
Months later — I’m not kidding, MONTHS — after one feeble attempt by Slumlord Jim’s plumber to clean it out and tell me it was fixed, they took the whole pipe apart. BOY was that fun — having my slumlord and his plumber traipsing through my bedroom and my storage closet taking apart a pipe habitually used to get rid of human waste. Oh, the memories.
And to add insult to injury . . . Slumlord Jim informed me it was my fault because they had found a bunch of, er, feminine products clogging the pipe.
I informed him in no such terms that his problem predated me, his latest tenant, as I was very careful about such things. (That goes back to the unmentionable incident with the Golgathan. I’m still not telling that story, as it gives me the heebie-jeebies.) Happily, the pipe stayed fixed for the rest of my stay there.
And now — pictures! No, none are gross. But d’ye see the bubbles around the pipe? That’s from my shower! Yes, the shower water built up in there too.
Futility (n): Taking a shower and scrubbing yourself clean, only to go to your storage closet and manhandle a pipe which carries away sh*t.