Now the subsequent tidal waves of that-which-shall-not-be-named were squelched before setting any of those plastic boxes afloat. But the physics of this problem alluded and infuriated us beyond the edge of reason, which means we called a plumber.
He determined the back-up was INSIDE THE HOUSE, clearly a plotline stolen from When a Stranger Calls, rather than in the pipes running out to the street.
He managed to do whatever it is plumbers do and advised that we were to use only toilet paper that is single-ply, or barely-ply. "Just don't use the cushy, expensive stuff."
I have given up cigarettes and eggs and diet Coke and my thyroid. And now Charmin.
There is no end to the sacrifice. Or the scratchiness.
|With huge thanks to my pal Mike Haidley for his exquisite rendering of our wave of woe.|