Throwup Throwdown
TW: throwup, nauseating self-pity
There I was, a frazzled worn-down knot of live wires, just trying to get some laundry done as the night thinned and thinned. And then a voice, urgent and shrill and most of all loud, from upstairs.
“DAD! The toilet’s clogged again! It’s gonna overflow!!!”
And that’s when I had this absolutely real, not exaggerated at all, quite frustrated, feeling-sorry-for-myself thought:
IS IT REALLY TOO MUCH TO ASK TO HAVE ONE (EXPLETIVE) MOMENT FOR MYSELF TO CLEAN THE (EXPLETIVE) PUKE OFF OF THESE SHEETS?!?
I clomped up the stairs in a wordless melodramatic huff, grabbing the plunger like it was some kind of enchanted medieval sword and I was a noble heroic knight, off to slay the fire-breathing dragon.
But, no. It wasn’t that at all. In my hand was an off-brand grocery store plunger1. And I was a 40-something in grubby sweats and a bad mood, off to plunge a toilet and try unsuccessfully to not to get any rogue splashes on myself.
Suffice it to say: I did what needed to be done. Surely you don’t want more details than that.
Once I heard the equally disgusting and satisfying gurgle of the bowl water finally passing through the (expletive) pipes, my daughter added,
“Oh, and I think maybe the other one’s clogged too.”
She pointed casually—as casually as only one who knows that they aren’t going to be the one who has to deal with it can—in the general direction of our mudroom’s bathroom.
I opened that bathroom door, bracing myself with a wince, trying not to inhale. The window was open, which is dumb in the winter while also being quite suspicious. I lifted the lid and that, dear reader, is where I will again spare you the details except to say that it was atrocious both visually and olfactorily2.
I got myself a makeshift mask, fashioned from an old t-shirt wrapped around my nose and mouth, to dim the stench and keep my gag reflex at bay. And went to work on the second toilet of the evening.
As you may have gathered from my self-pitying ALL-CAPS and ITALICS thought to myself earlier, on this particular night, we were already dealing with plenty of vomit. Three (Holly and the two oldest) of our family of six, puking. Thank goodness we have three bathrooms. I was in no mood to join Team Throwup.
(Holly still uses the term “barf” which I find amusing in its anachronistic, frozen-in-amber, late-1900s-ness.)
Anyway, half your family puking/barfing/throwing up is rough on a regular day. But it really has some wicked poetry to it on the weekend your wife’s dad, our rock Doug, passed away. We were struggling enough thank you, without the help of rampant stomach issues. And now plunger-requiring toilets.
Hence me begging the cosmos for just one crumb of a moment to clean the puke in peace.
After toilet #2 and a quick, angry outfit change (Rogue Splashes: 1, Paul: 0), I returned to the laundry room where I removed any offending, um, chunks before nuking the soiled sheet with a likely criminal amount of bleach.
The bleachariffic3 air in the basement made your eyes water for the next day or so.
Or maybe we were all just still crying about Doug.
I don’t know what the on-brand is. But this was not that.
I will say: it is only the second-grossest toilet I’ve ever cleaned. I pray the first-grossest keeps its standing ‘til the very end.
Not a word.