I waged a battle this morning in my own bathroom. In a house full of men, it’s a necessity. The three guys share the main bathroom, which we renovated to suit them (double vanity, big shower stall, separate W.C.). It’s great, and they love it. I, on the other hand, inherited the ensuite off what should be the master bedroom, but is in fact my office/studio. I do not love this bathroom. It is the result of some weirdass 80’s reno: all grey granite, with a wall of mirrored cabinets and a skylight that lets in harsh, unflattering northern light. There’s a narrow shower stall, and an undersized Jacuzzi tub that I never use. And the door to the room is glass. I can only imagine that the previous owners were midget exhibitionists.
The worst part of the bathroom is the toilet. You should understand that I am fastidious to the point where I don’t even like to use the word “toilet”, but this fixture is a nightmare. It looks nice enough, but it doesn’t flush properly. Now I don’t ask much of a toilet. In fact, I ask only one thing. OK, maybe one and two. But this toilet can really only handle one. It’s a low-flow design from the 80’s, and it should be replaced, but because I’m the only who uses it, it’s not high on the priority list. It’s there for quick breaks, and when nature really calls – when nature actually bellows – I’ll use the guy’s bathroom and catch up on GQ and Report on Business.
Even with the low demands place upon it, my toilet still acts up. This morning, like a supermodel, it refused to keep anything down. I’m not sure what happened overnight, but it was so clogged I suspected there might be an actual clog – as in Dutch shoe – in the drain. I went to this handy dandy website to suss out various methods methods (and was immediately enchanted and distracted by the cute Claymation illustrations). I tried two different plungers, an assortment of baking soda and vinegar concoctions, and a wire hanger.
John seems to have a flair for this type of thing, but I try to avoid calling on him unless the situation reaches Trainspotting proportions. Like the Queen, I try to maintain the illusion that I am above bodily functions. (I admire that woman – she is so on the money). But after several failed science experiments and a small flood, he popped his head in to see what the shrieking was about. Of course he unclogged the sucker in 10 seconds flat, tipped his hat, then rode off into the sunset. My hero.
I, on the other hand, was drained.