Day 30: My Handyman

I think the plunger is too big, I text. It isn’t sealing and keeps flipping on itself.

No just keep trying it, my dad replies.

I send a photo.

That is what they do.

That airpocket that forms is what pushes the shit thru.

I am standing in my bathroom in my underwear. It’s 9:35 am. I have a dull headache from the margaritas last night at Ana’s.

I originally thought about slicing something from the evening: we talked about everything from work woes to motherhood, Gianna and I with our mouths gaping open as Lizzie and Ana shared the hardships and joys that come with birthing and caring for a baby.

But when I got home at midnight, the toilet bowl water was very low and it wasn’t flushing fully. Weird. I was hopeful it would go away and magically fix itself by the morning, but when I got up at 7 after some wild dreams (which I also thought about for slicing), it still wasn’t flushing. The toilet in my apartment is a button-flush, so all my previous toilet clogging knowledge was off the table. I also didn’t have a plunger.

So I did what I always do when I need help with anything home repair-related or tech-related: I texted my dad. Let me know when you’re awake.

I proceeded to do the NYT word games and watched a YouTube video about replacing the flusher mechanism inside the tank. Ugh, I thought. I don’t want to do that.

Luckily, my dad called. We FaceTimed and he gave me some instructions: get a plunger, get a bucket, fill the bowl with water, watch what happens, plunge-plunge-plunge until it goes whoosh. It will likely make a mess. If it doesn’t clear out, then call a plumber. On Easter weekend.

I am lucky that my building has amenities. (Unlucky that they have no super or maintenance person.) I stopped at the pool floor on my way out to use the restrooms, then walked to Ace Hardware, picked up a basic plunger and a bucket, and turned back toward home.

Good luck, my dad texted after I sent him a photo of me walking with my newly acquired items.

I got home, cleared the floor of the bath mats and took my robe off its hook. I stripped to my underwear and filled the bucket, armed with the plunger. Let’s do this.

But nothing was happening. That’s when I texted my dad again.

Might take several tries until you get it just right.

Okay, I replied. Second bucket.

This time, I felt something as I plunged, plunged, plunged. The air pocket he’d mentioned. I filled the bowl again, kept plunging, noticed that the toilet paper that had started there was all gone and heard a slight whoosh noise. I took my chance and flushed.

SUCCESS! I texted.

Mazel tov.

Wish I had a dollar for every time I have had to do it. Now you know. Knowledge is power.

It sure is.

Just like when I changed my lightbulbs by standing my step ladder on my coffee table, or when I fixed the curtain chain, or when I put a new sliding door handle on the balcony door, I felt accomplished. And grateful, once again, for the generous, helpful handyman of a father that I have.