The Battle of the Bathtub Drain

Have you ever had a sudden moment of painful realization that you’ve been
very, very stupid? I have them quite often, actually, but I’m here to tell
you about a particularly bad moment of realization, one where my stomach knotted
up and I had to sit and shake my head in disbelief and say things like “oh
no. Oh god. Oh no. Please, no. Don’t let this be true. Please,” while fighting
down an ever-increasing sense of dread that this was, truly, going to be one
of the stupider events in my life.

But in order to understand the moment of painful realization, we have to
have some exposition.

We have two bathrooms — the bathroom we use most of the time, and a guest
bathroom that gets used rarely. The tubs in both bathrooms have some sort
of strange escher-like plumbing, so that the drains get clogged up a lot.
We’ve become especially good at unclogging the bathtub that we use the most
often, but we’ve sort of left the other one alone since it gets used a lot
less. Neglectful, we are.

The tub in the guest bathroom had always been bad, but had been getting steadily
worse over the months. Finally after our more recent guests commented on it,
and because I had some time to kill during my vacation, I decided that I was
going to unclog the drain.

When I started in on it, the drain was especially bad. It was draining once
every five hours or so. Not a real good rate of flow. And so, every day, when
the mood struck me, I would work at getting the drain unclogged. All told,
I used several different approaches toward this goal, up to and including:

  • Your basic drain snake, which, owing to the design in the bends of the
    pipe as it passed under the bathtub, would get about five inches in and
    then stop. The clog, I estimated, was about six inches in.
  • $15.78 in evil drain unclogging chemicals, including one with the label
    printed in very very small print so they could fit all the lethal warnings
    on it.
  • $6.50 for a bottle of “slow drain unclogger,” which apparently has these
    enzymes or nematodes or nanomachines or something that eat the clog. This
    is kind of frightening to me, the concept of having really small creatures
    sticking to the old hair and soap scum and other unmentionable goops and
    *eating them*, but it didn’t work anyhow.
  • An awful lot of plunging, which I discovered wasn’t working after several
    hours because the tub has a overflow valve that was letting all the air
    that I was plunging in, out. Ooops.
  • $7.95 for a strange sort of drain tampon that attaches to a garden hose.
    You stuff it down into the drain and turn on the water and it expands and
    then squirts water out the other end, the intention being that it blows
    the clog out from water pressure. Excellent concept. Didn’t work.
  • An interesting incident in itself involving a long piece of frayed brake
    cable attached to a power drill, which made a lot of sense in theory, but
    ended up having unfortunate consequences (the skin on my arm is just now
    starting to knit back together).

After all these attempts, I had managed to unclog the drain enough that instead
of now taking five hours to drain, it was taking two hours to drain.

This was a war, it was, between me and the drain. I was not going to call
a plumber. No way. I was going to fix this clog myself, dammit. I had managed
to get it to a little more than a trickle, after all. Now it was only taking
two hours to drain. I was making progress, wasn’t I? Wasn’t I?

It was on the eighth day of fighting with the drain that I got really pissed
off, and after a long session with the plunger (with the drain overflow valve
stuffed up with clay and duct tape), standing there being angry and sweaty
and the water in the tub still just sitting and mocking me, I decided I needed
a bath.

Fortunately, as I noted earlier, we have two bathrooms.

I really really like baths, although I lived in a house without a bathtub
for three years, so I sort of got out of the habit of taking them (I still
take showers, thank you). Baths now are sort of a major treat to be had on
very special occasions. Like fudgesicles. Like $40 worth of sushi in one sitting.
Like staying in bed and having sex all day. That sort of thing. Being angry
and sweaty over the drain isn’t necessarily a special occasion, but I needed
it, so there.

When I was a kid my mother was very stingy with baths. No more than two inches
of water, lukewarm. Half an hour in the tub, tops, or you turn wrinkly as
a prune.

Now that I’m 3000 miles away from her I fill the entire tub up with water,
as far as the overflow valve will let me, and sometimes I plug it up with
tape so I can get the tub even fuller. As hot as I can stand. And I stay there
for hours. I look like a shar pei dog when I finally deign to get out. I love
baths.

I am even so decadent in the bathtub that when the water starts to turn slightly
lukewarm, I will let some of the water out of the tub and refill it with hot
water. AND I’m accomplished enough in bathtub dexterity that I can do all
of this with my toes, so I don’t even have to sit up and expose any skin to
the air.

And so it was that after relaxing in the tub for an hour or so, letting the
stress of my war with the clog slowly fade away, feeling relaxed and very
very happy that I reached out with my toes to drain some of the cold water
out. I turned the knob and listened to the quiet sound of water running through
the pipes under the tub. I could feel the water flowing by my other foot,
sweeping by my ankle and down the drain.

Down the drain.

I turned the knob the other way. The water stopped draining. I turned it
again. The water started again.

Oh. Oh no. No.

We now rejoin our sudden moment of painful realization, already in progress.

I had never actually tried the drain plug on the clogged-up bathtub, assuming,
all this time, that it was just clogged up.

I got out of the tub almost immediately, located a towel, and dripped all
the way down the hall, through the bedroom, and around the corner to the second
bathroom where the tub was still somewhat full of old water from my last plunging
experiment. With ever-increasing dread I reached for the knob on this bathtub,
the twin of the one in the other bathtub, and placed my wrinkled fingertips
gently upon its surface.

The orchestral soundtrack began to build in intensity.

I turned it.

There was a gurgle.

And all the water in the tub rushed gaily down the drain.

I sobbed ceaselessly for half an hour.