There had better be a beer or two in my immediate future, because I am in a foul, foul mood.
Required Reading. Vote Democrat.
Crap, Part 2. One of the other joys of being able to field one’s own minor-league kitty softball team is the collective pile of fur they leave behind. Actually, it’s not one big pile—they can’t be bothered to clean up after themselves, of course—but an inch-thick layer throughout the entire house. We are constantly running the vacuum cleaner, chasing after dust bunnies the size of grapefruit, but as soon as one clean swath is made on a horizontal surface, it is covered by more fur. (Or, a helpful cat, who will then commence shedding like Pig-Pen from Peanuts.)
So it was inevitable, of course, that our washer drain would become clogged with the winter coats of five nervous cats and begin backing up into the utility sink (let’s all just savor that word for a minute: utility sink. Do you know how great it is to be able to work in the basement and wash one’s hands without having to run back upstairs to the kitchen? I’m in heaven here, people). I busted out the pipe wrench and attempted to pry the cleanout drain cover off a hundred-year-old iron pipe, with predictably negative results, and then tried running a snake down the sink drain. I’m sure that sink snakes work for extremely talented people and drain-cleaning professionals, but for me the process resembled fighting an agitated ball python in a puddle of sewage.
We called in a professional. This morning Mike rang the doorbell as Jen and I were getting ready for the day, and I ran downstairs to let him in the basement to deal with our balky pipes. Within about five minutes the drain machine was turned on and off, and Mike came back upstairs to present me with a bill for $140 and a sheepish smile.
Thankfully, he disposed of the clog, which I’m sure was the size of a bowling ball.
Funny Bunnies. Just click here. You’ll thank me.