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Five Important Updates You Cannot Pass up

29 Apr

Depression Update

I’ve recovered from a three or four week period (I lose track) of unexplained depression. I’ve given up trying to figure out why it hits me so suddenly and leaves the same way. It’s such a wicked affliction that when it hits, I don’t think “Oh crap, here’s depression!” It’s more like “I feel worthless today.” Then the next day it’s “I still feel like a piece of garbage today.” It takes ten days to get it: I’m having a legitimate depressive episode. I feel for those who have it worse.

Hedge Trimmer Update

Despite receiving no help from readers, I scored a minor victory over clutter and over-consumption when we returned the hedge trimmer to Home Depot this weekend.

Shopping Update

Depression is tied up into shopping. If I feel like crap, I can go to Target and feel better for an hour, especially if I walk out with something other than food, like a pair of shorts of a Bluetooth speaker. During certain periods of 2011 and 2012 I participated in some of this “retail therapy.”

Now, blue moods or not, I’m trying to avoid purchasing anything at retail, relying on Craigslist and thrift shops for legitimate needs. But some things are hard to find. I’ve been thinking about somehow acquiring a pair of well-made, fast-drying shorts in a neutral color with at least one zippered pocket that will practically LIVE on my skinny ass for the rest of the warm season.

Pretty much giving up on used, I’ve been looking online (REI, Campmor, Patagonia) at shorts that cost at least $60, but yesterday in Goodwill I hit the goddam jackpot, finding–for $2!–a pair of, tan Columbia shorts in my size with two zippered pockets, a hidden key pocket inside the waistband, and a built-in liner that will negate the chance that I’ll be wearing underwear this summer. If I try to articulate how happy this paragraph makes me, I’ll wee my pants and get booted from Panera.

Underwear Update

Without underwear, I will be a little bit lighter and nimbler, allowing faster sprinting, biking, and tree-climbing. I will be quicker in and out of the shower and I will spend less time doing laundry. Along with my awesome and über-comfy Lululemon liner-sporting running shorts I don’t see myself wearing under until October. (I don’t think I’m cool–maybe a bit lame, even–for owning something from this ridiculously expensive company, but I am thrilled with the quality of these shorts. In their stores, the men’s department is the size of a phone booth. Okay, maybe more like 8 phone booths put together in a 2 x 4 grid.)

My five pairs of boxers will have the summer off for a frolicking vacation or something. I might ship them off to The Keys. Then again, down there it’s quite easy to get caught up in the dangerous world of drug smuggling. Hmm, I’ll have to think about that.

Stuff Update

I created a new page up above next to ABOUT so I can keep track of all my stuff. And now I’m going to add 17 items to the inventory, sadly, without photographs.

  • Sweatshirt (gray, hooded, zipped)
  • Sweatshirt (blue, hooded, zipped)
  • Sweatshirt (brown, hooded, zipped)
  • Pants (workout, black, Adidas)
  • Pants (sleep, gray)
  • Pants (workout, gray)
  • Pants (jeans, blue)
  • Pants (blue)
  • Pants (thermal)
  • Pants (Cuddl Duds)
  • Shorts (tan, Columbia)
  • Shoes (trail running, Saucony)
  • Shoes (running, Vivo Barefoot)
  • Shoes (Crocs, brown)
  • Shoes (Crocs, brown, old & worn, for mowing)
  • Shoes (Crocs, blue)
  • Shoes (Muck Boots)

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Hermey Doesn’t Like to Make Toys

29 Jun

The innocent decision to write a novel has seriously screwed up my week. I can’t write. Creating a 500 word blog post has been like trying to catch a buttered kitten. (Which, by the way, happens to be one of my favorite things in the world to do on a lazy Sunday afternoon.) I actually wrote something the other day about writing a novel that was to be published here, but it sucked too bad. Then the next day some other words sucked. Yesterday … it sucked.

Writing a novel is hard work. I almost had a complete breakdown in the first hour of the planning stage. Then I tried to write a scene. What a mess that was. So I just slid under my desk and sucked my thumb for six hours … like I did in college. No, not really, but it kinda sounds nice. In college, I just pushed through it. I had professors and bad grades to deal with if I didn’t.

Before this silly novel idea, I shut down the virtual t-shirt shop to free up two hours from each day. Now, with more time to create and less to show for it, the pressure to DO is maddening. One can’t create staring at the clock with abusive thoughts (like “Do something idiot!”) flitting about. That’s when I say “Nap time!” But I wake up dejected all the same. At least, that’s what happened yesterday. So I’m forced to chop vegetables or vacuum something filthy to feel better. Anything mindless works, really.

Then if one day turns to two days turns to three days, I begin to think about other, better ways to spend my time, like grad school or sitting in a nice cave somewhere. That little monster on my shoulder yells “Stop writing … FOREVER! You’re wasting your time, jackass.” When it gets that bad the new blog posts dry up and I disappear. I disappear into conformity–working, but not living. Not growing. Shrinking. Suffering.

I have never felt like a conformist. (That’s putting a positive spin on it. Really, I’ve always felt like an outcast, partially from self-esteem issues.) I’ve always connected with Hermey from Rudolph. YOU’LL NEVER FIT IN! But, after 40 goddamn years, I’m beginning to see that as a positive. I look around and see no good reason to fit in. Fitting in is conforming is deadening is boring is television is commuting is shopping is fattening is believing is a perfect waste of time.

Anyhoo, today’s been better. Much better. What I’ve earned: Don’t believe your bad thoughts and shitty moods. It’s all a scam. Sure, it feels real at the time, but …

Say it with me: Tomorrow’s a brand new day.

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Do You Feel That Erosion?

20 Jun

On Father’s Day, my mad paternal skillz were rewarded with a clogged floor drain in the basement. An hour later, Ivan from Belarus arrived with the nastiest pair of gloves I’d ever seen. After snaking our hole, dislodging our muck, and taking $275, he gave me a 45 minute history lesson on Eastern Europe. I thought 15 minutes was fine–you know, hit the basics–but I’m terrible at producing body language that conveys “I’m bored!” Most people would cut through it and say “Hey man, it’s been interesting talking to you, Ivan.” Not me. My smiles and nods said “I can stay out here all night, dude.” Ivan feasted on my anti-assertiveness.

Ivan talked with a thick accent, so the 45 minutes felt longer. I kept leaning in like that would somehow help me understand him. I eventually drifted through him and all at once we noticed that we were standing with our backs together; it was so wierd.

Now that I think about it, he could have been talking about another topic entirely, like the intricacies of poop flowing through pipes. I do recall hearing something similiar to “feces,” and, at one point, he used a palm-down, flat hand to animate something moving at a fast pace. His hand whooshed from my right to my left with a subtle downward slant. Hmm.

I fixated on his fingernails as he gesticulated. A different plumber once told me that plumbers should never chew on their fingernails. It could have been part of a plumbing joke, but it seems a good policy anyway. Earlier, Ivan stuck his whole arm into our floor hole. He said something that I didn’t comprehend and then something that I did: Put you arm down there and feel that.

Huh?

I stood looking at him hoping the pause would communicate that I didn’t want to put part of my body in the dirty hole, but he said it again. He said something about this being “clean” water, separate from the “dirty” water. I thought “Wow, we are so not jiving on the definitions of clean and dirty.”

That hole was not clean. Dirty. Very dirty.

Still, as a responsible homeowner, I felt obligated, so I slid my arm down there and felt what I was supposed to feel: growth on the surface of the pipe. He said “I don’t know if it’s corrosion, or … erosion, or what, but that build-up is making your hole smaller than it should be.” Erosion? I doubt that. If I wasn’t so grossed out I would have chuckled.

I had two thoughts: something’s going to bite me or my hand’s going to get stuck. I pulled out safely, but my bicep had slimy, black shit on it; I wanted to run to the sink in the next room. I took one step and he started talking about the growth some more, so I stopped. I held my gross arm out away from me like I had Body Integrity Identity Disorder: a compulsion to sever a healthy limb from your own body. He could have been messing with me; I’m not sure, but–damn–he has to realize (doesn’t he?) that regular people aren’t used to getting icky sludge all over themselves.

I wouldn’t be shocked if he was laughing at me as I scrubbed my arms. I should have said “See this shit on my arm, that makes it not clean.” What are they teaching kids over there in Belarus anyway?

Back outside as the sun was setting on our conversation, he said something like “feces,” which could have been “species.” I thought we were talking about plumbing again, so I blurted out “I can’t believe I put my arm down that hole!” He looked at me like grasshoppers were climbing out of my nose. He said “Oh no, that water something something something. I would never tell you to put your arm into something something toilet paper and poopoo.” I felt like such a wuss.

Maybe he thinks every man has an inner plumber fighting to emerge, that we’re born attracted to funky smells and oily smudge marks. Well, I’ll tell you, Ivan, I wasn’t born with a silver pipe wrench in my mouth. No sir. So next time a plumber urges me to join in for the dirty bits, I’m going to stand up for my right to stay clean.

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Papa’s Got a Brand New Bag

9 Jun

I love bags. Last night, my wife laughed at my new one. She said it was a girl’s purse. I called it a wristlet. Then she laughed because I knew it was called a wristlet. I said “What would you call it if it was shoved up your ass?”

I have two primary bags, a large Swiss Army backpack and a medium Timbuk2 messenger back. Lately, I’ve been using the backpack because it’s large enough to carry an 11.6 inch laptop. When I’m not leaving home seven mornings a week seeking out coffee and Wi-Fi, I switch to the smaller bag.

Here’s what’s in my bag today:

  • computer & mouse
  • Kindle Touch
  • cellphone
  • small baggie holding mixture of sweeteners (XyloSweet, stevia, and coconut palm sugar)
  • plastic spoon
  • coffee mug
  • small notebook
  • medium notebook
  • magazine (The New Yorker)
  • toothbrush + toothbrush holder
  • iPod + earbuds
  • wallet
  • YMCA membership card
  • lip stuff + Germ-ex + lotion
  • six pens, including a black Pilot G2-mini
  • a salad in a large glass lidded bowl
  • large water bottle
  • small plastic cup with lid holding five brazil nuts, two dates, and a small piece of 100% chocolate
  • small bag of carob powder
  • camera
  • keys
  • wristlet (the subject of this post)

When I’m done “working,” and I need to run into a grocery store or Target … anywhere, I don’t need to carry all that crap, but I need some of it: pen, small notebook, phone, keys, and wallet. The medium bag is too big, the big bag is way too big.

So a couple of weeks ago I found myself in Target slinking through the summer hat/floofy scarf/purse department. I tried out a green “cross body” bag. It would almost work. I put it back, walked around the corner and discovered a smaller breed of chick bags.

I found a small, black, non-leather, tasseled bag with a small strap clipped to it. The tag told me it was a wristlet. I stood there studying it wondering what I could do to de-feminize it. Obviously, the tassels. And then I thought I could paint something tough on it, like a skull or gun. I imagined myself carrying it around, wondering if it would cause anxiety, wondering if some ass-hat would whisper to his wife “Hey, it looks like that dude’s been in your closet.”

Of course, I could stick to my pant pockets for such a small number of items, but I don’t like to feel all bulgy and droopy. I feel like the weight is going to leave me standing with exposed boxers.

Yesterday was the big test: a trip to Target with Ainsley to get some almond milk and avocados. In the parking lot I dug the wristlet from the depths of my backpack and transferred the necessities into it. I put the wristlet in the cart. But when it was finally time to swipe the debit card, my hand trembled imperceptibly as I felt the eyes of the checker and the young mother waiting behind us. I fumbled around trying to shove some bills and the receipt into my wallet, and then both my wallet and some coins into my wristlet. Then coins went into a special slot. Somewhere deep down, I was impressed with the functionality, but closer to the surface I was trying to remember where I put the receipt.

But I’m keeping it. One of the keys to a happy life is to not give a shit what other people think.

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People Watching (Why You Don’t Want Me Jogging in Your Neighborhood)

22 May

Common question asked while people watching: “Did you see that?”

Have you ever sat in a crowded place and just watched people? Of course you have. I think “people watching” is a common enough activity. I would go so far to call it unavoidable. If you ever go to a department store–a Walmart–you must be doing a little of it. I can do while pushing a cart; I’ll even stop and feign interest in bath mats if I hear something striking coming from an interesting face.

It’s enough time to create a tiny snapshot of people’s lives, no more than prejudices and stereotypes. When I see a mom unabashedly yelling at or spanking her kid, I shudder thinking about how she disciplines at home. I see families that look like they just climbed out of a dumpster and wonder what their house looks like. I see beautiful people and wonder if they live beautiful lives.

An extension of my love for people watching is actually discovering how people spend their time. I would love to grab an interesting-looking person on the street and ask “What are you all about?” Obviously, I don’t mean literally “grab” them–that’s against the law and could get you killed–but just talk to people. Sadly, I’m not one of those people who can approach strange people. Everyone seems so busy. And if I find myself in a conversation started by a stranger, I’m not able to ask such personal questions. Instead of probing, I end up being probed, which is uncomfortable.

Generally, I have to rely on the written word or television for glimpses to the inside. Though I rarely watch them anymore, I’m fascinated with shows about addiction and mental illness. I like Hoarders and Intervention, but the latter scares the crap out of me. A whole section of this addiction show is reserved to remind us that it can happen to anyone. She was such a happy baby. Maybe that’s why reality shows are so popular: our fascination with what’s going on behind the curtains.

When I jog at night by a house with unblocked windows I can’t make myself not look. What’s going on in there? Are these people happy? Miserable? Is there an alcoholic living there? Is someone dying from cancer?

My wife makes sure our shades are drawn at night. I tend to leave them open. What would people see in our house? Maybe me reading or cleaning up after the kids. They would see kids running, jumping, fighting, dancing. In the warm months, they would hear the sounds of kids and dogs–thuds, barking, screams, crying. They might hear music.

That’s boring, common stuff. It’s what you’d expect to see. The juicy stuff isn’t visible from the window. It’s in histories, sad stories untold, hidden feelings, dark thoughts, tense conversations in inner rooms.

I like to think that every house on our block contains a fascinating story, enough to fill a book I’d read. That’s every house on your block too. And your house. And of course mine.

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Charlize and her doppelgangers

17 Feb

Lately I’ve been studying university and college program requirements and prerequisites as if I’m about to be tested on it. I can stare at that stuff for hours. It’s not like I’m trying to decide between two graduate programs. I’ve looked into philosophy, nursing, English, every health science program at SLU, and every career program at L & C, and I don’t even want to try to name everything else. Let’s just say I’m conflicted.

I’m beginning to think I have a touch of OCD. It wouldn’t surprise me. Years ago I went to this psychologist. She seemed baffled and a bit disappointed that I didn’t show any obbsessive compulsive tendencies.

Are you SURE you don’t experience any obsessive thoughts? No, I mean really, really SURE? Oh come on, get real.

It was my first appointment and she almost had me convinced that I was doubly screwed.

Social anxiety AND OCD? Oh, shit!

She calmed down and accepted that I might not be OCD. After a month she departed to pop out a baby and left me in the care of an intimidating Charlize Theron look-a-like. I thought I’d been dropped into The Devil’s Advocate.

Anyway, I was there to feel better and this insanely cute psychologist walks in and jacks my anxiety up to a nine. I’m much more comfortable around ugly or average-looking people, so I bolted after two sessions when she refused to “fuglify herself.”

I couldn’t think of Charlize Theron’s name up in that paragraph, so I typed “Katherine Heigle looks like” into my friend Google.

Bingo!

I also confuse Katy Perry and Zooey Deschanel.

Who's who? Oh, KP also lets her boobs hang out. Duh.

Imagine me in the medical field. I’d be hiding in supply closets and under beds. It’s time to accept that I’m best suited for quiet, solitary pursuits, far away from death, blood, and misery.

No more forking around!

10 Feb

I’ve been thinking about taking some classes, maybe towards a philosophy degree. Who knows. Like usual, I’m conflicted. I can’t make a decision.

Here’s what happened.

I was driving along last summer, content, singing to Bohemian Rhapsody, car dancing, and I came upon a fork in the road, so I pulled over. The road split into four. (How many two-tined forks do you own?) Each road had a sign:

  1. Go back to school
  2. Get a “real” job
  3. Write (seriously)
  4. The road you’ve been traveling for years.

It’s now February and I’m still sitting in the car staring at the signs. My battery’s dead, I’m shivering cold, and I have to pee.

Yeah, that’s about it.

Okay, now I’m out of the car, walking.

Let’s see, to stay on the same path would be the easiest. It’s comfortable. I’m used to it. But it might be time to challenge myself, shake it up, take some risks.

My past attempts to focus on writing were disastrous. It takes mere days to feel myself falling into depression as I struggle with self-doubt. I have thoughts of meeting my end like Edgar Allan Poe. I’d be found in downtown Edwardsville, delirious, before dying in a local hospital. The only difference: he was a writer, and I’m, well, not.

School sounds attractive right now until I think about student loans, homework, and, of course, the whole “social anxiety” issue. I guess it’s the idea of having a master’s degree that’s attractive, but I have doubts I can sustain that kind of commitment. I’m comforted by a plasterer who told me his sister completed–completed!–medical school only to decide medicine wasn’t for her.

Well, how about the road to a full-time job? Not yet. The little one is in first grade. I’d rather wait a few of years before taking on something that would keep me away from home upwards of ten hours a day. When I’m old and gray I’ll look back fondly on being around for the girls after school, greeting them off the bus, asking about their day, etc.

<sigh>

I’m just going to pee on this bush, put on my heavy coat, crouch down under this big tree and think about it a bit longer.

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Getting it from Behind on the Bumper Cars

5 Jan

My life is like a ride on the bumper cars at the Illinois State Fair: I switch directions often and crash into things, and all I walk away with is a sore neck.

I’ve been making and selling t-shirts online for six years. It’s part-time, easy, and I don’t have to talk to people. It’s perfect for me.

Still, last winter I shut it down so I could write every day. Then in the Spring, I woke up one day and realized I was done writing.  I re-opened the online stores and worked through the summer and fall. Then one cold day, again, overnight, I woke up and was a writer again. I tried to do both, but found myself neglecting the “business.” I have put the store “on vacation” five times this winter to catch up (people get cranky when their little t-shirts are late).

And within these shift are mini-shifts. I began two other blogs and posted around 15 times to them. Now, the newness is gone and I don’t like to think about them sitting out there, feeling neglected. Yes, blogs feel. I began a long writing project, a middle school novel aimed at my middle school daughter. I’m still “into” it, but will that last? That kind of project takes some dedication; dedication I might have . . . until opening day.

Every day I try to decide what to do. Should I do what I enjoy or stick with making money at what feels like a real job? I’m almost certain that whatever I decide to do now will change in mere months.

So. What the heck is going on with me? All I can figure out is that I’m suffering from some kind of seasonal affective disorder that changes my brain chemistry from November to March. In warm months I think about baseball and bicycles, but when it turns cold I read philosophy books and think about death.

Dr. Oz told me (not personally) to consider light therapy for seasonal affective disorder. Yesterday, I browsed Amazon for just that. I didn’t buy anything. Yet.

The thing is, I don’t feel depressed. I don’t feel sad and hopeless. But when you’re buried in depression it takes awhile to realize you’re in it.  Am I in it? Am I–right now!–figuring it out?

If it’s not lack of sunlight, it could be what I’m calling the “Too Much Freedom Hypothesis.” I’m fortunate to have this problem. Most people are stuck in crappy jobs they can’t walk away from. But it’s not all ice cream and puppy dogs living with this freedom. My only deadlines are self-imposed. In College I had due dates. Write a ten page paper by next Friday!  At work they expected me to show up at the SAME TIME EVERY DAY. They kept track of how many days I was late or “sick.” That all takes discipline. They’d hand me a stack of papers and expect it to be taken care of by a certain time. It’s easy to be a corporate slave. Just tell me what to do boss!

Do you know why some men can’t handle retirement? It’s the loss of a sense of purpose, of a sense of accomplishment. All of a sudden, they’re no longer “productive” members of society. Former executives are working fast food drive-throughs.

I “vacationed” the store on Tuesday. Today, I’m feeling some of this retirement distress.

In the end, my problems are probably a dash of depression, two tablespoons of plain-ol’ neurosis, a half cup of social anxiety, and a third of a cup of “too much freedom.”

And for the record, I’ve never liked the bumper cars.

Oh, you like the bumper cars, huh? Oh, look, here’s the merry-go-round, let’s do that.

With the bumper cars, I don’t like the interaction with the other drivers. If you ram into me good, face to face, I don’t like that moment when we’re sitting there looking at each other. Wipe that smirk off your face. I don’t go after people randomly either; I attack jerky-looking men (however, at a young age I do remember trailing cute girls intent on little love taps and never from behind).

And at this age–pushing forty–if you blindside me at full speed, bring in the damn stretcher ‘cuz I’m not walking out.

No, this guy would rather be sealed into a private pod and taken on a leisurely ride. An hour would be nice. Is there a ride where they hand out (clean) pillows beforehand?

Excuse me Mr. Carny, can you tuck me in?

 

 

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Death, Family, and Words Ending in “ian”

12 Dec

My Uncle, Gary, died on Pearl Harbor Day at the tragically young age of 61. We buried him Saturday, fifteen days before Christmas. Where family reunions fail at bringing everyone together, funerals get the job done, admirably. It was, of course, a sad day, but I saw aunts, uncles, cousins, and nephews (and more connections I’m not entirely clear on) I haven’t seen in, well, years in some cases. I realized that I miss being around these people. I hadn’t told Jennifer, but even she said “We need to spend more time with your family.”

I was once close to some of them, but my reclusiveness (social anxiety) and 87 miles have chipped away at the bonds. I often feel like an outsider. Though I love them all, I fight the feeling that some see me as a snob. Of course, I could understand if they do, for I’ve fallen into the habit of keeping to myself and saying too little. My own fear leaves me appearing aloof, distant, uninterested.

Though we gathered under sad circumstances, I enjoyed spending time around them. I wasn’t able to speak to them all, but I would have liked to.

Kids say funny things (and lighten the mood on sad days)

After the funeral, my wife, Jennifer, and I drove my twin seven-year-old nephews, Cameron and Tysen, to the generous Methodist church for a big, family meal. On the way, the boys complained of hunger and talked only of food. They raised the idea of me eating a chicken leg. Jennifer told them that we wouldn’t be munching on any kind of leg, because we were both vegetarians.

Later at the church, Jennifer sat with the twins as I took my place in the “food” line. Tysen told Jennifer: “If Mike brings you a chicken leg, I’m going to take it, because you don’t eat meat.”

Cameron, who had been listening, leans in: “Is Mike a lesbian too?”

Jennifer: “Do you mean vegetarian?”

Cameron: “Whatever.”

In our experience, kids commonly mix up veterinarian and vegetarian, but lesbian? This was a first.

For the record, neither I nor my wife is a lesbian.

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One Flush, Two Flush, Three Flush, Four

15 Nov

Social anxiety is the fear of social situations that involve interaction with other people. Put another way, social anxiety is the fear and anxiety of being judged and evaluated by other people. If a person usually becomes anxious in social situations, but seems fine when they are alone, then “social anxiety” may be the problem.

Fun stuff, lemme tell ya.

Recently, my own personal version of social anxiety has been slapping me in the face and kicking me in the balls (it’s worse in late fall and winter). In past therapy sessions, I was told to rate my current anxiety level on a scale from 1 to 10. The anecdote below helps a little for outsiders, linking my anxiety levels to actual circumstances.

My goal on Nov. 10 was to install a new sump pump in our rental house. The new tenants already had keys to the house and I didn’t know if they’d be there on this morning. He’s a Maryville cop, night shift. I think she stays home to care for their four boys. The parents both have insomnia issues, so I felt confident that I would find the house full of unopened boxes, but void of people if I got there early enough. I dropped Ainsley off at school at 9 and went straight over there.

No cars in the driveway. Yes! (anxiety level, 3)

In the basement, I ripped the new sump pump out of the box and looked down into the dirty, smelly hole at the old one. I noticed that the pipe was too short to make this an easy swap-out deal. I’m plumb-ignorant, meaning I know nothing about plumbing. My anxiety dropped from a 3 to a 2 when I realized I wouldn’t be sticking around very long. I did a couple fist pumps and some basic dance moves to celebrate.

As I peeked from the basement window to check the driveway status, I, uh–I felt–okay, I’m having a hard time trying to write this part. It’s embarrasing. More so than usual. I had to use the bathroom…sitting down. Poo, ya know? Geesh, that was more difficult than it should have been. I spent several minutes on this teeny paragraph.

Anyway, I went upstairs, checking out this strange family’s boxed up belongings on the way. I went into the main bathroom, sat down, yadda yadda yadda, stood up, flushed.

Normal toilet sounds. Water swirling, whirling. But slowing too quickly, something off.

No, no, no, no, don’t do this to me. Go on down, get out of here, poo poo.

It didn’t go down.

Are you sh*!%ing me? (anxiety level, 4)

I flushed it again. The water rose.

Flushed again. Rising.

Oh my God! (anxiety level, 5)

The water was two inches from the top.

F**k! (anxiety level, 6)

Without rifling through their stuff, I looked around for a plunger (what are the odds of a plunger sticking out the top of a cardboard moving box when most boxes were under other boxes?), upstairs, downstairs, and in the garage. Nothing. I went back to the scene and grabbed a toilet brush (This brush was ours from some previous cleaning.). I just knew that if i jammed that brush down into the hole, it would fix everything. It was a shallow clog, I thought. The water had receded, so I pushed it down into the opening and moved it around a little. Then I flushed.

Oh boy, stupid idea (oh you KNEW that, huh?). (anxiety level, 7).

The water was back up to the rim. What was once clear, was now murky. I stood there, right hand on right hip, left hand on chin, staring into the swamp, horrified.

In my head, I was making up conversations with the cop who I knew would be showing up any goddamn second with a moving crew.

Yeah, I know this is your house now, but can you please not go into your bathroom right now?

(This is where I decided to delete the whole part about removing the toilet brush and cleaning it off. I hadn’t thought of the consequences of this not working BEFORE I jammed it into the hole. If it had worked, I could flush it clean several times.)

I jogged out to the car and glanced at my watch. I felt better being outside. (Anxiety level, 5)

My new mission was to buy a plunger (or find an unemployed plumber) as fast as possible. I went to a newly-built Casey’s gas station down the road and found nothing but a small bottle of Liquid Plumber. I scanned the label: DO NOT USE IN TOILETS. Crap. Borrowing Casey’s own restroom plunger crossed my mind.

Back in the car I thought a 30 minute round trip to Collinsville was inevitable. (Anxiety level, 6)

Then I remembered that Maryville had a Walgreens.

Hmm, a plunger at Walgreens? Maybe. (Anxiety level, 5)

Their selection was sparse. I found the smallest, sorriest-looking plunger in the history of toilet clogs for five bucks and one of those larger, accordian-style plungers for eight. I grabbed the big one and joined the checkout line, wondering if the woman in front of me could sense that I was in the middle of a crisis. She looked at me twice. Was it written on my face? Splattered? I raced to the car.

Now on the way back, speeding a little, I prayed to God (and I don’t pray) that no one had showed up.

Steve, come here, quick! This guy, what’s his name–Mike? He hardly says 10 words, then comes into our house just to f**k up our bathroom?  (Anxiety level, 7)

Still no cars in the driveway. Yes!  (Anxiety level, 5)

Now bent over the toilet, I’m trying to figure out this fancy piece of poo-dislodging equipment: turn 1/4 turn to open air-release valve. Huh? The water had receded again, so I stuck it down there and started pounding.

I flushed and the goddamn water slowly rose again. Oh, come on, man! (anxiety level, 9)

I read the label again, slower this time, and learned that I needed to close the air-release thing once the plunger was through the water and in position. Then I was back at it with quick, efficient up and down strokes, thinking of my next move if this failed.

Then, that sweet sound. Suction, then release, flowing water, disappearing muck.

Yes! (anxiety level, 3)

After that, I felt like The Cat in the Hat at the end of the story when he cleaned up that horrific mess in, like, 2 minutes, leaving no trace of his previous shenanigans.  Crisis averted. (anxiety level, 1)

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