All pooped out over the weekend

As if I didn’t already have enough adventure in my life, a whole lot more than I bargained for flowed into the picture late last week.
Like you and all the celebrities in Hollywood, I, too, use the bathroom. And, as in your home and all the mansions in Hollywood, my bathroom is a place of need and often, contemplation.
Oh, how things can change with one flush.
I am inclined to believe that I was the only one who learned the difference between a good plunger and a cheap one, and why on occasion I still pine for a municipal sewer system.
And I also now know how many expletives can tumble from my lips in the few seconds it took to realize that the “waters” were on the rise. The septic tank can’t be full!
Of course, the task of getting it emptied couldn’t possibly be on my list of things to make an appointment for, and heaven knows it’s not on Pete’s list hanging on the fridge under the heading “Things to buy for my shed.”
The ironic thing is, I’d thought about it a million times during the summer when I drove the lawn tractor over the only spot on the lawn were the grass was always a unique bright green.
The problem had to be elsewhere.
“Mrs.-Know-It-All” figured she could fix everything with a flush-and-plunge maneuver, but managed only to break the Olympic record of plunger repetitions in a 10-second window while Daughter #3 looked on in horror at the prospect of having to “go outside.”
Of course, Pete was at work and received the “news of day” well before he arrived home, giving him lots of time to plan the next plumbing strategy. He made a quick stop at the grocery store, five minutes before it closed, to purchase a drain opener at the request of Mrs.-Know-It-All (who still was in a fantasy world where all toilets flushed using a flat stare).
That course of action was abruptly halted when it was discovered, while perched over the bowl, that we had drain opener which was for everything else but toilets.
Because Mrs.-Know-It-All was still in denial about a brimming septic tank, Plan ‘C’ (a.k.a. Pete) was to go down into the crawl space under the house and check a clean-out valve for backed-up water.
Seeing as how all the house water went into the septic tank, including the kitchen sink, maybe, just maybe an eggshell or stray noodle had plugged things up.
I realized soon thereafter that Pete was in “payback” mode when he crept down there mumbling. He forgot to bring pails to catch the water that would no doubt flow when he opened the valve.
Guess who was the bucket maid?
Under this and over that I crawled, work gloves on, pails in hand, into an underworld of plumbing and furnace parts where only the vertically-challenged felt comfortable.
Little did I know I’d be stuck hauling the pails—four in all—back outside to dump them out.
Still convinced the non-flushing toilet would be solved in swift fashion, I held my breath and heaved the dark waters into the tall grass far from the house.
Pete stood his ground. “The septic tank is full and that’s that,” he said.
Still in denial, Mrs.-Know-It-All frowned and chucked the last pail of murky water into the night when suddenly something solid caught her eye.
Just as Pete came outside to ease his stress with a cigarette, I picked up the flying object, broke it in half, turned around, and remarked in a manner plucked from the stupid pages.
“How did chunks of wood get into the pipes?” I queried. “I told you the septic tank wasn’t full.”
“That’s not a piece of wood,” he rebutted, with a flat stare that told me everything.
Oh brother. I’m moving to the city.

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