Orgasmic Plumbing

            Many American households do their utmost on occasion to avoid a call to the plumber.  Sometimes this means that the household lives with the faulty plumbing until the handy person of the family finds time to do what they are capable of doing.  Sometimes this means that the household lives with the faulty plumbing until somebody breaks and calls a plumber.  And sometimes the solution comes from a corner completely unknown and unexpected.

            At the time of our plumbing pickle, we were a family of long hairs.  My husband had grown out his wavy locks and wore a long braid down the middle of his back.  I had been a long hair person most of my life and at this time my hair was nearly to my waist.  Both of our daughters had similar lengths of hair.  Only my stepson and young son were of the short hair variety.  Once, during that period of time, a person seated behind us at a public event and staring at all the hair lengths in front of him for the duration, felt the need, afterward, to convey his condolences to our “poor plumbing”.

            Not long after this incident, our shower in the bathroom off the master bedroom (and I use this term loosely – our house was built in 1953.  Our master bedroom is a walk-in closet compared to many homes built today) became unusable.  It was unusable and, perhaps also unusual too, because the shower could only produce cold water.  A person can handle this once in awhile (cabin in the woods etc), but not on an every day life in the U.S.A. basis.  When the estimate came back that included tearing out a closet wall and one side of the shower in order to repair the plumbing and then building a new shower; the situation was determined to be “non-emergency” and temporarily assigned a “live with” status indefinitely.   So my husband and I joined the rest of the family in using the “family bathroom” shower.

            With four long hairs (2 adult, 2 children) using the same “family bath” shower, eventually there came a time when, while taking a shower, one found oneself standing in a big puddle of water.  This “puddle during a shower” grew by rapid increments until the day came when a showeree would find themselves standing in a pool five to six inches deep while cleansing.

“We need to call a plumber.”  I lamented in panic.

“Don’t call a plumber.  This is something I can do.  I will have to take the pipe apart in the basement and snake the drain. It’s going to be messy, but I can take care of it myself,”   was the reply from my spouse.

            Well, given the time and financial constraints at this juncture in our lives, the solution could not happen quickly.  In the meantime, the pool that accumulated whenever I showered, grew ever deeper and deeper.  I found myself standing in a full bath while I showered and not long after that, the depth of the pool exceeded even the secondary drain, which was working furiously to contain the flow while I feverishly rinsed so I could shut the water off.  I was angry and frustrated at my helplessness.  I was afraid to go out on a financial limb and call a plumber; and I was afraid to add to my husband’s load by reminding him, yet again, that the situation had become dire.  And on top of that, I was beginning to notice that the little pedestal sink installed in our tiny little ¾ “master” bath with the non-functioning shower, was now also pooling water instead of properly draining.  It is extremely gross to have to spit out tooth brushing waste into water that isn’t draining.  I was really at my wit’s end.

But then, one day, a small ray of light shone through.

            I was standing at my pedestal sink.  I pulled the drain plug completely out hoping to remove some hairballs that might be attached.  No such luck, the pedestal sink, being newer than most of the fixtures, did not have the kind of drain plug that caught hairs.  However, when I gazed down the drain, I noticed, that there was a little white post protruding at a 90-degree angle.  I didn’t know what the little post was for, but it would seem that it has something to do with whether or not the drain plug is up or down.  Staring down at that little white post, I noticed that there were several strands of dark hair looped over it.  I wondered if they might be entangled with a larger mass of hair below the post.  I then reasoned that, if they were indeed attached to the clog that was plugging the sink; I might be able to use a little crochet hook to latch those few visible hairs and then pull up the clog behind it.  Fortunately, there have been a few times in my life when I thought that I could learn how to crochet.  As a result then, on this very day, I had in my possession a crochet hook or two.

            I went to the bowels of my sewing desk and located the instruments.  I chose the smallest, daintiest one, and returned to the scene of the operation.  It turned out that my choice of instrument was too short, the hook was so small and my hand so large, that I could not maneuver the hook down and under to pull up on the hair.  I was not deterred.  I retrieved the larger crochet hook and came back to complete the conquest.  Alas!  The end of the larger one did not have enough depth to the hook to catch the hair.  The hook itself did not turn in enough; and my hand, at the very edge of the drain, blocked my vision.  I sighed deeply and stood back.  What I needed was a long thin hook which curved up to be parallel to the stem, and a stem long and thin enough, so that I did not need to have my hand near the drain.  I cast about.  Could a wire hanger be trained to do the job?  I thought so.  I retrieved the best wire hanger in my closet.  With my bare hands, I straightened out the curved part that hangs over the rod, at the same time bending the end a little to make my hook; then I took hold of the middle of the bottom line of the triangle and pulled it straight, in order to form a long stem.  This was not the gleaming instrument of precision that I had envisioned, but I was sure that it would “Play in Peoria”.  I would go down trying.  Slowly I threaded my latest tool down the drain, crowding myself to one side to keep the light on the drain.  When I got to the white protrusion, I pushed the stem to the side of the drain, opposite of the white thingy and then I edged it down the side of the drain a bit, back across and then up a little bit.  I could feel that the hairs had hooked and that there was weight below them. I gently tugged upwards until the hook emerged with about a foot long hair mass attached to it; the bottom third of which, was black, ooky, and putrid smelling.  Putrid!  I marveled for a brief moment at how just a few strands of hair could be strong enough to bear the weight of the entire mass as I pulled it up out of the drain.  Then I dumped the whole thing in the garbage.  Now it was time for the litmus test.  I ran the water full force and watched it go right down the drain without backing up.  I replaced the drain plug while continuing to watch the water go straight down the drain.  I plugged the sink with the drain plug and watched the water accumulate in the sink until I released the drain plug and watched the water go straight down the drain.  Performance tests completed; results: success.  I stood a little straighter.

            Later that night as I lay in bed reliving my small victory, I began to wonder if the same principle might be applied to the family shower bathtub drain.  Hmmmmm.  For the next few days, the thought persisted around the edges of my conscience.  It grew, until I began stalking that 1953 Kohler Blush Pink bathtub.  I flew numerous reconnaissance missions over that drain.  I visualized the approach and the outcome over and over.  I patiently continued my stalking and reconnaissance over the area.  I had viewed it from every angle.  I had observed that I would need a large flat screwdriver to remove the top of the drain plug.  I knew I could do that.  I waited to go about my task until - at last - I felt “the zone” descend upon me.  It was time.  I sharpened my hanger tool.  I gathered my large flat screwdriver.  I laid newspapers on the floor next to the tub just in case there would be more black ooky to deal with.  I removed my shoes and socks.  I climbed into the tub and squatted over the drain with my large flat screwdriver.  I guided the tip of that screwdriver into the indentation of the screw.  “Righty tighty, lefty loosey” I silently repeated to myself.  The screw wouldn’t budge.  I made faces and applied more pressure.  It gave way.  I removed the screw and the top of the drain cover.  Aha!  This first screw was merely a portal to a second screw.  I was going to need a Philips.  “Don’t panic!”   I said to myself.  “You can find a Philips in this house.”  And so I did.  I returned to the operation at hand, only this time, I stripped down to my panties for less encumbrance.  I positioned myself over the drain and used the Philips to remove the second and last screw.  My heart was pounding.  Oh no!  There was another thingy attached to the protrusion part that now swung freely as a result of removing the Philips screw.  It appeared that I could slide it off the protrusion and out of my way, however, what if I couldn’t remember how to get it all back together.  What if I came all this way and then had to call a plumber to put my drain back together?  I decided to take the risk and proceed because I knew that I had some mechanical backup in the household.  I took up my hanger tool and went boldly forward.  As I moved the stem down the drain, I found that I had reached the point where the pipe turned at a 90-degree angle.  I tried to get the hanger to curve and get into the bottom of that “L”.  Soon I found that I had reached the end of my stem. I could go no further.   I had my index finger curved under the end loop of the stem that had formed by straightening out the triangle of the hanger.  I tried to twirl the stem around in the hopes of hooking onto something, but to no avail.  I needed a longer, thinner stem with more give.  About this time my husband arrived home and came to the bathroom door.  He knocked gently. 

“Can I come in?”

“Of course.”

“What are you doing?” he asks.

I reply, as if it isn’t obvious with me sitting there in my panties in an empty tub with my index finger hooked under my hanger tool that is almost all the way down the drain.

“I’m unplugging the drain.”

“How?”

“With a hanger.”

Uproarious laughter ensues.

“Honey” he says.  “You can’t unplug a drain from the top.”

“Yes I can.  Haven’t you noticed how good our bathroom sink is draining?”  That’s because I pulled out the clog from the top with a hanger.  And it was mostly all hair.”

“And you think you can do that here?”

“Yes – I just need a better tool.  Can you make me one?”

“What do you want me to do?

            I retracted my current tool and showed him that instead of the quickie tool I had assembled; a bigger, better model was required.  I needed a hanger completely unwound at the stem and straightened into one long line with a good hook formed on one end and some sort of handle at the other.  He humored me and took my hanger to the garage for revision.  After he returned to me with the new tool; he left me to my private battle.  He did not want to watch.  Which was fine with me, some things must be done alone.

            I began threading the new tool down the drain, found the bottom, and began applying a pressure to curve the hanger into the cavern.  My biggest fear was that I would catch on something that would break the tool and contribute even more to the clog.  But I felt sure in my heart.  Then something caught and I began to pull up.  As I got it closer to the top, I did not feel any weight on the other end of the line.  Sure enough, it emerged with only a few hair strands and some pieces of ook attached.  I went back down, only to retrieve several more of these “teasers”.  I pushed on for I knew that I was in the right place.  I pushed deeper, twirling the tool as I went, digging scraping.  Finally, I felt it catch!  It wouldn’t budge.  I could sense that it was not caught on something mechanical.  My intuition told me that I had hooked a “really big fish.”  I kept the pressure of my tug in place.  Everything that I had ever heard while watching a fishing show - (for God knows what reason, but perhaps for this moment in my life) now released from the corridors of my brain.  Don’t pull too hard, too fast.  Give the fish enough room to tire himself out, but not enough to swim away hard and break the line.  I employed these gems of wisdom.  I kept up the gentle pressure of my pull without pulling up fast, until I began to feel the suction start to give way.  Even then I did not pull up hard in one swift movement, - oh no - just ever so slowly, hand over hand on the stem, until finally the head of the beast emerged from the drain.  I grabbed it by the throat with my left hand knowing that the strength of the hanger hook might give way.  And then with the same gentle pulling pressure I squeezed hard, now bare hand over bare hand, slowly backing myself away from the drain by pushing with my feet against the front of the tub.  The hair mass was imbued with soap slime and shampoo and rinse.  I had an iron stomach at this moment.  I wanted the prize.  I held hard with my hand over hand, continuing to back myself away from the drain, moaning “ooos and aahhs” with each inch of sweet release. When the black sludge began to make its appearance, I kept my hands in the same place while continuing to reel in that big fish by pushing myself further back, all the while, yelling to my spouse and children to come and see what Mommy did. I was still verbally expressing my ecstasy from the success of my efforts with numerous “Oh my God’s” when they arrived at the door.  Laying my big catch on the newspaper, I was standing there, still lightheaded from my extreme satisfaction; I collapsed back down into the tub.  A three-foot long hair rope lay extended across the newspaper on the floor for them to see.  The children’s awe was not sufficient enough to withstand the putrid, smelly part of the rope.  No one really comprehended the magnitude of what I had accomplished.  But I tell you this.  Long before Leonardo Di’Caprio had exulted his kingship from the bow of the Titanic, I was the “Queen of the World!” at the stern of my bathtub.

            As with the unclogging of the sink, there were litmus tests to perform.  My husband removed the offending beast to the garbage.  (I had wanted to preserve it somehow, but was discouraged from doing so.  I had to settle for savoring the memory ever after.)  I reassembled the bathtub drain mechanism without frustration and carried out the last of my duties.  Soon thereafter, I summoned my family to watch a full tub of water drain quickly down with that sweet little whirlpool that performs the last suction.  I dusted off my panties and lived in glory for the next several days.  No one else really understood the depth of my satisfaction, but it didn’t matter.  My heart understood.

            I have, in the years since, returned to that same fishing hole a few more times. It always yields one great catch, although never as big or as satisfying as that first one.  As time has gone on, the reduction of hair volume, as well as, the practice of some preventive maintenance with good old fashioned baking soda, white vinegar and hot water, has rendered my prided skill virtually obsolete.  But the memory – ah the memory – of that first time, lives precious in my mind.