One Flush. One Flush Only Please.

Should you ever find yourself in the unfortunate situation of arguing with someone over whether or not it is possible for an 8 year old girl to completely stop up a toilet without utilizing the assistance of huge wads of toilet paper, merely through her own “doing”, and should they argue to you that it is NOT possible, not without using at least a couple of fist-fulls of TP, you have my express and explicit permission to thwap them over the head and bugle “HAA!!!! WROOONG!!!!” right in their shocked and suddenly-wishing-they-were-some-place-any-place-else faces.

Cause I now have proof that they are so very very wrong. If you need proof, come see. Apparently, I live with elephant girl.

I was running late again this morning and was freaking out a little because my blow dryer was barely whispering at my hair, much less blowing at it, it was one of those mornings where Ringlet needed both breakfast before we left and lunch packed for later and none of that had been done and I hadn’t been anywhere near my make-up and it was only 15 minutes before we had to run out the door to get her to school on time and I was already wondering how the hell I was gonna pull that off, when I heard the words “Mom!!! The toilet is plugged up!.”

OK. Good enough. You only have to trot in there, grab the toilet un-plugger-upper-thingie, work it loose and get going. 20 seconds. Tops. I came bolting from my room, button hooked into the hall bathroom and suddenly went skidding through the water that was standing about half an inch deep all over the bathroom floor. I had my arms out, I was sideways and it looked like I was hangin’ ten across the bathroom. The only thing that stopped me from plowing into the wall was the now soaking wet bath mat. I went splishing out of the bathroom, down the hall, snagged 3 bath towels and crawled my way back up the hall, soaking up the stream that was now running down the hall and proceeded to frantically mop up the water that appeared to be everyfrigginwhere. When I was convinced I had it all, I addressed the toilet head on, broke a sweat with that plunger thingie, shut one eye, reached for the shut off value with one hand, and flushed with the other. All good. All gone.

Looked at my watch, yelped at Ringlet to get on her shoes and get down stairs and get her stuff together already, snatched up what I needed and followed her down, doing that half-slide, half-run thing down the carpeted steps. I had my purse in one hand, bottle of water in the other, when I heard “Mom. There’s water dripping in here.”

WHERE!?!?

In here. In the living room. And yes. There was. A steady **drip drip drip** coming from the A/C hole/vent/thing in the ceiling. Snagged cereal bowl. Set it under the drip. Snagged Ringlet and OUT the door we went with my make-up bag now tucked firmly under one arm as well.

In the car, UP with the garage door, no need to look behind car - it’s still too warm for a snow blower, and careened out of the garage, down the driveway, and into the street where I turned to her and said “Hon, just how many times DID you flush that potty after it didn’t work on the first flush?”

Three. Three flushes after the first flush and even my math-challenged bud, Lisa, can figure out, no matter what color she uses to divide, that that’s a lot of water.

Yes, I told Mr. Moosenuts. No, I don’t wanna go home.

New Rule: No Poopin’ in My House in the Mornin’ No More.