Quick! Call a Plumber! . . . or a Ringmaster
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Well, I knew the adventures would be plentiful with our extra “daughters” around, but I didn’t expect this much excitement this soon.
So, on their second night here, everyone’s getting ready for bed and we hear a shout: “Mr. W!! Please come! We have a problem!”
B rushes upstairs and all of a sudden I hear a huge THUMP. And then some more rustling and excitement. And I hear something about the toilet and water and . . .
Oh no.
So instead of rushing upstairs, I rushed down to the basement to get some towels that I was sure B was going to need. On my way up the basement stairs I met up with Kate who was hysterical, running to get even more rags and towels from the basement.
“It’s overflowing! The toilet is overflowing!” she cried.
Believe me, we’ve had our share of clogged toilets in this house, but we don’t usually have overflowing toilets. So I ran up the stairs as fast as I could with the towels in my hand.
The sight that greeted me was slightly less than mayhem, but pretty darned close.
Our poor guests were peering through the bathroom door, even more wide-eyed than their first day here in America. B was standing over the toilet, its lid removed, trying to figure out what had happened. And he was wet. From top to bottom, he was soaking wet.
The bathroom floor was entirely covered in water, a few towels scattered around, and water was creeping toward the bedroom carpeting. It was obvious that we were going to need more than the couple of towels I had brought up from the basement.
Long story short, yes, the toilet got clogged, but also water had been leaking from the shut-off valve underneath it for who-knows-how-long. We got the mess cleaned up and called the plumber who fixed us up for a mere $200.
But those poor girls. I don’t think I’ll ever forget their faces as they watched B trying to figure out the situation. Because apparently the huge THUD I heard from downstairs was my dear husband, running into the bathroom without realizing how very wet the floor was and doing one of those sitcom slip-then-fly-through-the-air-and-fall-on-your-backside things they do with a banana peel.
Oh the stories they are going to have to tell when they get home.
Let’s hope neither of them has a blog.
So, on their second night here, everyone’s getting ready for bed and we hear a shout: “Mr. W!! Please come! We have a problem!”
B rushes upstairs and all of a sudden I hear a huge THUMP. And then some more rustling and excitement. And I hear something about the toilet and water and . . .
Oh no.
So instead of rushing upstairs, I rushed down to the basement to get some towels that I was sure B was going to need. On my way up the basement stairs I met up with Kate who was hysterical, running to get even more rags and towels from the basement.
“It’s overflowing! The toilet is overflowing!” she cried.
Believe me, we’ve had our share of clogged toilets in this house, but we don’t usually have overflowing toilets. So I ran up the stairs as fast as I could with the towels in my hand.
The sight that greeted me was slightly less than mayhem, but pretty darned close.
Our poor guests were peering through the bathroom door, even more wide-eyed than their first day here in America. B was standing over the toilet, its lid removed, trying to figure out what had happened. And he was wet. From top to bottom, he was soaking wet.
The bathroom floor was entirely covered in water, a few towels scattered around, and water was creeping toward the bedroom carpeting. It was obvious that we were going to need more than the couple of towels I had brought up from the basement.
Long story short, yes, the toilet got clogged, but also water had been leaking from the shut-off valve underneath it for who-knows-how-long. We got the mess cleaned up and called the plumber who fixed us up for a mere $200.
But those poor girls. I don’t think I’ll ever forget their faces as they watched B trying to figure out the situation. Because apparently the huge THUD I heard from downstairs was my dear husband, running into the bathroom without realizing how very wet the floor was and doing one of those sitcom slip-then-fly-through-the-air-and-fall-on-your-backside things they do with a banana peel.
Oh the stories they are going to have to tell when they get home.
Let’s hope neither of them has a blog.
