Flush With Manliness

I am not, by most modern definitions of the term, manly.

I am under six feet tall. My features are not chiseled. I don't follow sports. My last two dogs collectively weigh less than the average Christmas ham. I enjoy shopping. My abs are less six-pack and more lumpy down pillow. I bake a mean loaf of bread. My gambling skills are non-existent. And if I attempt to grow a beard, I end up looking like someone who might loiter near your child's elementary school with a bag of candy and a van parked around the the corner.

But where I have, in the past, proven my manliness are in those home maintenance and upgrade projects that occur from time to time.

Need a room painted? Two coats in one day with clean up. Done.

Assemble a new cabinet or dresser? Stand back. It might get messy for a bit, but you're gonna love it when it's all put together.

Enhancements to a mostly barren backyard? How about a 100-square-foot paved patio with retaining wall and a fire pit on one side of the yard, and an outdoor theater with an 8-foot screen and surround sound on the other side? Yeah, I did that.

Unfortunately, while I can still proudly grunt and strut from time to time, a chink in my manly armor has begun to show. It started small, almost unnoticeably, and has grown into an epidemic encompassing three of the most important rooms in the house. By now, it is nearly impossible to flush any one of our toilets with any sort of assurance it will (a) flush on the first attempt, (b) refill the tank within an acceptable amount of time, or (c) flush without generating a screaming, squealing sound like the souls of a thousand plumbers crying out in vain for you to call a professional for help.

Fixing a toilet used to be simple. Chances were pretty strong the root cause of your problem was a flapper that no longer kept a good seal. Easy enough change out and cheap, too. Five bucks and a little water sloshed over the edge of the tank later and you were done.  And if your toilet innards stopped working, you drove to the hardware store, plunked money down for new innards, drove home and installed them. That was it. Not any more.

In the past year or two, I've plunked down more money than I care to recall on toilet innards. Cheap ones, expensive ones, fancy ones, simple ones, complete replacements and partial repairs -- doesn't seem to make a difference.

This one didn't flush at all. That one is louder than a freight train. The flapper chain on this one can't be adjusted. That other one sprayed water ten feet into the air in a room with eight-foot ceilings. Even when you do get one that seems to work, you'd better hang on to that receipt because once you let your guard down it's going to find some way to mock and torment you.

At this point, I figure I have two options, and I'll let you decide which is the more manly of the two. I can either heed the screaming voices and call a professional, or I can remove the innards from the toilets in the house and hire one of our kids to remain on standby at all times with a bucket of water. What do you think?



© 2014 Mark Feggeler

Fast Poop, Slow Poop; New Poop, Old Poop

Gravity. That's the entire basis of modern plumbing as it has existed since the time of Christ.

Water from a higher level runs down through a series of ever narrowing channels and pipes, increasing the force of the flow as it goes, until it bursts from your faucet, or your hose, or your toilet. The toilet even gives it a bit of a boost by providing a reservoir meant to deliver a rushing flush of water to carry your unmentionables along to the sewage treatment plant. Plumbing is a simple, yet somehow perplexingly complex, field to which only the truly talented should apply themselves.

For example, the plumbing in our house is okay. It is plumb enough to carry waste materials to the waste material netherworld approximately ninety-seven percent of the time. Flushing the toilet is mostly a thought-free, worry-free practice that results in the removal from our house of all the things we would not want to have hanging around our house for several days, or even several more minutes than is truly necessary.

But mostly isn't the same as all the time. And ninety-seven percent, while a considerable portion, is not the same as one-hundred percent.

There are those times when -- dare I hazard to guess caused by the attempted flushing of an inordinate quantity of Angel Soft by a member of our household under the legal voting age -- our plumbing proves itself to perhaps not be quite as plumbed as it should be. The water simply cannot manage to force the biodegradable barge downstream to the municipal sewer pipes. A second flush, while tempting, yields no benefit. In fact, you'll likely discover how quickly you can pirouette over the poodle, shove aside the magazine rack, and turn off the water to the tank without killing yourself or permanently damaging the poodle.

A plunger in these circumstances is the second tool you need to resolve the clog. The first tool you need is a detective's keen sense of observation.

Is the clog at the farthest end of the house from the sewer lines? Is it at the nearest end of the house to the sewer lines? Is it between the house and the street? Are all the pipes in the house clogged with Angel Soft and poop to breaking point and the slightest plunge of a plunger will cause them to rupture?

Where does the gurgling of a trickle of escaping water sound loudest? In the kids' bathroom toilet? In their shower? At the kitchen sink? In the master bathroom?

Which appliance has the greatest potential to cause every toilet and sink and shower and bathtub in the house to gurgle and bubble like a witches' brew? The dishwasher? The washing machine? The pump in the basement?

Still and all, for every three challenging flushes there are ninety-seven that go off without a hitch. Considering how many people in this world poop al fresco and wipe with the nearest squirrel, the occasional clogged pipe really isn't so much a thing to complain about. Is it?

Perhaps some day, when the kids understand they don't need to flush an entire roll of toilet paper in a single go, we will be able to properly gauge the faculties of our facilities. Until then, if you see me stalking through the house clutching a plunger and listening intently for the sounds of gurgling water, give me a wide berth. The plunger might be dirty.


© 2013 Mark Feggeler

Intestinal Fortitude

When I was a kid, I had the average kid's relationship with the green, bitter, leafy plant known as spinach. There was no preparation that made it palatable. Even our dogs wouldn't eat it when I dangled a spoonful at them under the table. If an animal that regularly eats its own poop turns its nose up at a food, how can anyone possibly expect a kid to eat it?

At some point during my early adulthood, I discovered I liked spinach.

Creamed mega-laxative in a pot.

Spinach with garlic and lemon. Spinach in vegetable lasagna. Spinach and ricotta in that all-the-rage, 1990s, faux-bread substitute pita pocket. And creamed spinach. Some certified genius took this outrageously healthy and unpopular vegetable and served it Alfredo! They award Nobel Peace prizes for lesser accomplishments.

But over the last few years, in spite of my growing fondness for all things spinach, spinach has decided it does not like me. And I have learned through direct experience that when spinach chooses to do nasty things to your inner workings, it does not have the common courtesy to provide advance notice. One day you're scarfing it down like Popeye prepping to take on all of China in a cage match, and the next day a single mouthful sets you rumbling on the toilet louder than a launching rocket and gripping tight to the porcelain to keep from lifting off.

Although I've had enough time to come to terms with this new dietary restriction, there are moments when the will is weak and I tempt fate with a serving or two, heedless of My Lovely Wife's warnings and usually when there's a big bowl of creamed spinach before me on the table.

The first sign I've made a mistake is that false sense of security I get after I've eaten more than my share without my body immediately vomiting it back out. Stands to reason if my body can't tolerate spinach, it wouldn't allow it in. But it does, and before the plates are cleared and my belt loosened to aid digestion, the power of that dark-green mega-laxative is already being unleashed.

I might as well not even own a pancreas for all the good its enzymes do in breaking down the spinach on its way along my digestive tract. Like a freight train running off the rails, spinach barrels through my upper and lower intestines, not sparing a second to admire the scenery. By the time it gets through the colon -- carrying along with it the flushed out remnants of every cheeseburger I've eaten since 1977 and every spare bit of vitamin K in my body -- I'm fully cognizant of the fact I should never be more than a pants-dropping away from any one of the three toilets in our house.

The next morning, after the smoke has cleared and several rolls of toilet paper have mysteriously vanished, I make a solemn promise to my reflection in the mirror never to eat so much as a single shred of spinach.

But then there is all that leftover creamed spinach in the fridge...



© 2013 Mark Feggeler

A King on His Throne

The hall bathroom toilet, and all territory immediately surrounding it, has been claimed by the Italian.

Every now and then it might be possible for the German and Our Daughter to sneak in for a few minutes to shower or brush their teeth, but ninety-nine-point-nine percent of the time if the door is closed and light is peeking out from under it, it means the Italian is holding court.

The strangest thing about this new behavior is that I never expected it from the Italian. This is the same kid who, only a few years back, took great delight in running around the house naked and smacking his bare ass to some improvised musical number, often themed around the words "hiney" or "bahookie." I never expected an exhibitionist of his caliber to withdraw to the windowless environs of the bathroom.

If you're leaving for church and the Italian cannot be found, knock on the bathroom door. If you're running late for inline hockey practice and the Italian isn't in the van, knock on the bathroom door. If it's homework time and the Italian's books are sitting abandoned on the kitchen table, knock on the bathroom door. If he's been in the bathroom for twenty-seven minutes and you've yet to hear the shower running, knock on the bathroom door.

Had the German been the one to sit on the toilet for hours at a time, playing Minecraft until the restricted bloodflow to his extremeties had turned his toes a deep shade of blue, I would not have been surprised. The German has always been something of an island unto himself. He hugs less, is less needy throughout the course of the day, and tends to exist in a state of remote awareness of his surroundings. A moderately introverted boy seeking seclusion is not much of a stretch, yet he is the one who does not find it necessary to retreat to the quiet solace of the loo.

Fortunately for our plumbing, the purpose of the Italian's newfound respect for privacy has nothing to do with dysentary, diarrhea, dropping the kids at the pool, or any other bodily functions beginning with the letter "d." It's all about Minecraft, or whatever other game he's playing on his iPod when he disappears, because he knows at some point My Lovely Wife or I will tell him to log off and interact with an actual human being rather than a virtual one. Out of sight, out of mind is the policy he has instituted.

But, as this blog post serves to show, he has been found out. Gone are the days of attempting to FaceTime with relatives and friends with his pants around his ankles. Few are the remaining days of talking to a white door that sounds like the Italian instead of talking directly to him. Preparations are being made for a coup d'etat to oust the king from his throne.

Besides, if we don't put an end to his Occupy the Bathroom movement, where am I supposed to go to check Facebook and play Angry Birds?


© 2013 Mark Feggeler

Urine My Memories

Not to be indelicate to the female audience -- presuming this blog actually has an audience -- but something struck me funny the other day when I made use of a public restroom at a local restaurant. I mean struck me figuratively, not literally. That would be disgusting.

In that particular restroom, the urinal was mounted so high on the wall as to render it unusable by anyone under, say, seven-foot-five. It became clear after a quick glance around the tiny room it had been decorated by someone who was not a practicing man.

Let's face it, you could relieve yourself on the floor and write your name on the walls with your own feces without significantly impacting the cleanliness of most public restrooms. So, when you find one -- a men's room mind you, not just a unisex bathroom -- that has pretty little handsoaps near the faucet, extra toilet paper stocked neatly beneath the sink, and wall tiles sporting a repeating flower print, it's a safe guess a woman was in charge of the design. And a urinal positioned at a higher altitude than any other urinal in the history of modern plumbing is the final indicator of a non-user calling the shots.

Moreso than as an inconvenience to myself, I considered how utterly useless a high-mounted urinal is to my 11-year-old sons. The entire point of a urinal, as I've always seen it, is to keep men from peeing all over the seat of a standard toilet, thereby reducing the risk of inconveniencing the next seat sitter to come along. If you're then going to mount the urinal so high that men who are not professional basketball players have to stand tippy-toe and arc a stream four feet into the air to avoid free-form urinating all over the restroom, then what possible hope does the average kid have?

Of course, I'd rather have to aim high than pee on my own feet, like those old-timey urinals that run all the way down to the floor make you do. You don't see them around much anymore, but when you come across one you'd better hope your not wearing sandals.

Which reminds me of my favorite urinals of all time, that really weren't so much urinals as a step-down groove in the concrete floor. These were the specialty of some of the racetracks our Dad would take us to from time to time when we were kids. It's amazing how quickly hundreds of beer-filled men can relieve themselves when all they have to do is pee semi-indiscriminately on the floor and let gravity take over. Even the cows at our Uncle John's farm had a more sophisticated waste removal system. You knew you were at a fancy racetrack when they had that twenty-foot-long bathtub in which to pee instead of the floor groove.

So here's a little friendly advice for any ladies out there who might ever find themselves in the position of having to tell a contractor how exactly to mount a urinal:

1. Higher than the toilet.
2. Lower than the sink.

That's really all you need to know.

Oh, yes, don't forget dividers if you're going to install more than one. I'm already trying not to pee all over myself. I don't want to have to worry about the mouth breather next to me who smells like his trip to the restroom is already five minutes too late.



© 2012 Mark Feggeler

A Lesson In Anatomy

Teaching your children about the birds and the bees can be a terrifying ordeal. Many parents avoid the subject like a venereal disease at a Kiss concert. Not us.

Not that we've sat any of our kids down with diagrams, or handed them a stack of dirty magazines, but we have kept ourselves abrest of our need to provide nuggets of information and guidance when and as necessary.

As our 13-year-old daughter advances farther along through her teen years, the opportunities to impart bits of wisdom arise with greater frequency. The movies she watches, the magazines she reads, the websites she browses -- all media at her disposal is rife with sexual content. It is our responsibility to ensure she and her brothers are prepared to process it in healthy ways.

Unfortunately, some of life's most important lessons do not present themselves in scripted Hallmark Moment splendour. More often than not, we stumble through, desperately hoping not to screw things up too badly. The very first discussion I had with Our Daughter on the subject of male anatomy is a perfect example.

Some years ago, when Our Daughter was a mere toddler, we stayed at a hotel at which my Lovely Wife attended a work-related educational training. My role during the event was to watch over Our Daughter during the day. We swam in the indoor pool, played fun little games, read a few board books, and watched an episode or two of SpongeBob and Blues Clues.

One afternoon, following our final round of swimming, we were back in the room getting cleaned up for dinner. I showered while Our Daughter watched a little television. When I came out, I found her jumping up and down on the king-size bed. The warning to stop had barely escaped my lips when I watched her fly backwards off the bed and land flat on her back, knocking her head on the thinly carpeted concrete floor with a sickening thud.

I picked her up and held her until her crying subsided. Determining no serious damage had been done, yet still with heart racing from the scare, I placed her in the bathtub and continued to distract her with silly jokes from my perch atop the closed toilet. Suddenly, staring at what I thought were my knees, her face went dead serious. She pointed and said, with some noticeable measure of disgust, "What is that?!"

In my panic, I had completely forgotten I was still only barely wrapped in the towel from my shower. Unbeknownst to me, while I sat there on the edge of the toilet entertaining her, my nether region was hanging loose and free for all to see. A quick shift of the towel and a summary dismissal of the subject were not going to be enough to undo the damage, so I decided to face the challenge fate had placed before me.

In language familiar to her, I explained, "It's my peepee." The shock of disbelief showed in her widening eyes. She looked down between her legs, back up at me, and said: "Well, wash it off!"

I laughed so hard, I ended up using the towel to dry my eyes. Not only had I traumatized Our Daughter by flashing her, my follow up only served to convince her I was horrendously unhygienic. Between that, and her having to endure years of watching her brothers streak through the house as only little boys can, it'll be a miracle if she ever gives us a grandchild.



© 2011 Mark Feggeler

Toilet on the Edge!

Maybe our kids have powerful colons.

Maybe our plumbing is a little dodgy and can't handle, um, big loads.

Maybe the fact we go through an entire big brick of toilet paper every six hours is stressing the city sewer hook-up at the street. After all, those big bricks are equal to 48 normal rolls.

Whatever is going on, we have become good friends with our local plumbing service. They send us hand-signed Christmas cards every year. If it were a public company, we would have seats on the board by now. We probably could take all those business cards they leave behind and recycle them into yet another big brick of toilet paper.

Our most recent adventure with the valiant plumbers started two nights ago.

Once again, it would seem the kids were too big for the pool as the water in the toilet refused to return to pre-flush level. A grumbling, gurgling, bubbling noise rumbled up from under the floorboards, scaring the poodle and making our wallets tremble in fear with each toggle of the chrome-plated handle.

It seems like only yesterday the plumbers were here to flush the main line from the house to the street because of a noteworthy deposit made by the German that apparently could have clogged a Roman aquaduct. This time I was determined to disengage the offending matter from our excrement transport system myself.

The first attempt involved standing over the empty bowl, staring determinedly down into it, and flushing the toilet. Amazingly, this accomplished nothing. The water drained but the gurgling and low post-flush water level persisted. A good dozen flushes later, combined with some normally effective scowling, resulted in no additional progress.

Kicking the toilet was out of the question as that would only crack the porcelain and injure my toes, so I moved to plan b.

Our plunger is stored in the garage, encased in a plastic grocery bag and tucked under the mop sink. Neither the bag nor the location do anything to protect our family and visitors from potential contaminants or the unsightly image of a soiled plunger, but I'm not going to spend any more time dealing with that nasty thing than is required. If I could chuck it out the window and forget about it after every use, I would. It isn't even a very good plunger. Made entirely out of plastic, it does not properly establish a seal once inserted in the bowl. That said, it has served me well in my scatological battles.

Again scowling but this time with a renewed air of confidence thanks to my handy plunger, I inserted the weapon into the bowl and started plunging. Nothing. I flushed and plunged at the same time. Nothing. I flushed and plunged in a slow and rhythmic manner. Nothing. I cursed, flushed, and plunged like a maniac whose life depended on unclogging that freaking toilet. Nothing.

Then I remembered a secret weapon purchased years ago at a garage sale and presently wedged into a dusty corner of the basement storage room. I retrieved the antiquated toilet snake from its hiding place, unwrapped it from the thirty-year old casing, brushed away the chunkier bits of rust, and inserted it into the toilet per the Old English instructions on the yellowing wrapper. It followed its course with only a little persuasion and then it was ready for action. I twisted the handle and waited for the ancient device to release the obstruction. Nothing.

Already late enough into the day to justify not calling the plumbing service, we let it lie overnight. In the morning, and after repeated testimony from me to the effect that the clog could not possibly be in the toilet itself, my Lovely Wife suggested we fill the bathtub with hot water and try flushing the main line ourselves. Sheer brilliance, I thought, and did as she suggested. Nothing.

The toilet stubbornly gurgled, burbled and bubbled and refused to return to proper water level. For two days, at this point, we had avoided using the toilet for fear of worsening the problem while concurrently spiking our water usage to new heights in our attempts to solve the problem. Defeated and forlorn, we called for help.

When they arrived -- almost eight hours early, for such is their top notch treatment of regular clients -- there were two of them, both prepared to wrestle the porcelain beast into submission and delve headfirst into battle with the four-inch PVC pipes in our basement.

They walked around the house, opened and checked the main line to the street, but found no sign of trouble. They followed me to the basement storage area and stared up at the pipes as though trying to employ my first tactic of determined scowling but accomplished even less than when I had done it.

They followed me to the bathroom where they flushed and listened. They flushed and listened again. After several more flushes they decided the draining sounded healthy. They proclaimed my toilet healthy. The damned fools! It's a toilet on the edge of madness!! Can't you hear the gurgling? Can't you see the water level?! This toilet has lost all sense of reason and must be nursed back to health!

Sensing my hopeless helplessness, one of the plumbers lifted off the lid of the tank. He reached in only an inch or two and grabbed the little refill hose that is supposed to hang into the tube leading to the bowl. It had popped out of the tube and was no longer doing its job. He put it back in the tube and, immediately, the toilet righted itself.

Fifty dollars later, I am grateful to be only fifty dollars lighter. I wish my pride had suffered so little a loss.



ⓒ 2010 Mark Feggeler