A Crappy Conundrum: One Woman’s Struggle With a Plunger-less Bathroom

One of the horrors of life is dealing with a problematic toilet situation in someone else’s house. Recently, I had to go “number two,” while at a gathering, because that’s just what the human body does. Unfortunately I had no idea this activity would result in my near demise.

I like to think my potties are fairly straight forward, and I don’t tend to use gobs of toilet paper. I don’t flush feminine products, and have a general idea of how plumbing works. So when I flushed the toilet in my friend’s house and it terrifyingly filled to the brim before swirling without purpose, I knew I was screwed.

Here’s the thing about toilets; they’re all as unique as a fingerprint. You have no idea what’s going to happen. Do you have to hold the handle down and count to three before a gentle breeze takes your unwanted person-fuel away? Do you ninja chop the handle, because anything more languid will confuse it, consequently turning the whole thing to dust? Does it fill up a bit before executing a vacuum flush, or does it instantly suck everything down in a violent way, dispersing gross droplets of yuck into the atmosphere? Is it one of those lame conserving toilets that can barely handle its own liquid? One never knows…which is part of the thrill I guess.

So here I am in an unfamiliar bathroom with a toilet I’ve just met, and I’ve managed to clog it. So I figure I’ll just plunge it, but as I look around I see not a plunger in sight. I look in the cupboards. Nothing. I panic. Now I’ll be known as the guest with the explosive intestines that will never be invited over again because I can’t be trusted with defecating responsibly. My hands start going numb.

Do I leave the bathroom and go try and find a plunger myself? Do I ask her for one? Do I flush again and hope it doesn’t Niagara on me? Do I close the lid and leave a note written with eyeliner on tissue? (What would that note even say: “sorry I don’t know how to bathroom?”) Does she even have eyeliner? Do I leave and act like nothing happened? What if I ask for the plunger and my friend is territorial over her toilet and wants to plunge it herself, thus seeing my poops? Am I going to survive this??

I think it would just be easier to die.

Beside the toilet there is a lone toilet brush, which makes no sense to me. That is for cleaning, and the need to clean on an emergent and frenzied basis is fairly uncommon. Why there is a brush there, but a plunger is not? You can very easily fit both of them somewhere in the bathroom, for that I am sure. I know plungers are unattractive and icky, but so are toilet brushes. Why the discrimination? I’m sure there’s something on Pinterest about deco-paging a cute little plunger holder. Why does my friend not see the necessity for bathroom fundamentals? Why am I friends with her at all? I think we should break up.

I am questioning everything while looking into a toilet bowl….because apparently this is where my life has taken me.

Alas, I decide to not break her toilet, escape through the window, or throw myself on the floor; face-first. So I swallow my pride, and go ask for a plunger; I mean, we’re all adults, right? And as they say, “shit happens.”

I carefully venture out of the little room which holds my nightmare, and look for my friend. I realize I’m taking super soft steps, as if I’m breaking and entering. I find her and ask her for the plunger. She seems confused. Oh my God, does she not know what a plunger even is?? Then she says, “oh, it’s out in the garage.”

The garage?

Great. So my friend and her petite poops don’t ever need a plunger! She has never had to play beat the clock; scrambling for her garaged plunger while her toilet is ready to Mount Vesuvius everywhere. I suddenly feel like the Triceratops of women. It’s just me and my big dinosaur droppings, clogging up all of the delicate toilets in the city. Hmpf.

I start to wonder….

Are my potties bigger than those of other women? Am I abnormal? Should I see a doctor about it? Google it? Is there a children’s book entitled, “What to do When Your Poops are Bigger Than You?” Am I a…gasp…man?

Is this why I am still single?

But then I think, maybe there is something wrong with my friend and her little rabbit pellet turds. I mean, she eats like a bird, so maybe she has never experienced a basic BM. I think she needs to go to the doctor. And maybe eat a half-pound bacon cheeseburger. Maybe if I turn the tables on her, I won’t look like the idiot who clogged the bathroom-she’ll look like the idiot with the improperly functioning colon.

Wow. Maybe she should break up with me.

The end of the story is pretty anti-climactic: I used the plunger which disposed of all evidence I ever use the bathroom at all, leaving the toilet a sparkling clean kind of innocence. But all of it…the fear and the sweat and the shame…could have been avoided had there just been a plunger in the bathroom in the first damn place.

Or at least a toilet in the garage. ;)

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