every, every minute by Shannon Erickson

I generally consider myself a pretty handy girl. I've tackled everything from indoor and outdoor caulking, shutter painting, chandelier installation, and bathroom hardware replacement (p-trap, faucet, and all). So, needless to say, when my roommate first told me that our kitchen sink was no longer draining, and that, in trying to fix it, there was now a leak under the sink as well, I responded confidently, "Honey, step aside and let a MAN take care of that!" Man being me, cause I be handy, yo.

SATURDAY
The next morning I strode into Home Depot, greeted by that old familiar smell of cleaning chemicals and sawdust. I was reminded of the two summers in college when I wore the orange apron, two summers, which, I will boldly assert for the rest of my life, qualify me to fix anything.

I bought PVC and a hacksaw to fix the leak, and a plunger and a snake for the clog. Walked out of that place like I was going to stop world peace from leaking. Like I could unclog cancer!

Before this story takes a tragic turn, I would like to point out that I did successfully fix the leaky p-trap. I put in brand new PVC, cut it to fit, everything was snug as a bug in a rug drinking milk from the jug going chug-a-lug! I’m awesome.

Fast-forward 5 hours later: I’m lying on the kitchen floor crying.

The cat is crying. The kitchen is crying. All three of us smell like rotting food and there’s muddy oil silt in violent splatters on the counters and walls (a testament to the vigor and persistence of my plunging). Nothing had worked. The snake, the plunger, the boiling water, the vinegar and baking soda, more snaking, more plunging.

Oh, Saturday. Oh beautiful, lost Saturday. I had had goals of fixing the sink in a jiffy, cleaning the dishes, making the kitchen look pretty, and baking something delightful, all before Laurie got home.

Laurie came home, not to a plate of double chocolate walnut brownies, but to a catatonic roommate, sitting despondently in her own sink sludge. So Laurie called the landlord. Our probably-not-supposed-to-have-a-cat secret, be damned. We'd figure out how to stash the cat if we needed to, we decided. So, plumber to the rescue? Nope. It was Saturday, and our lord of the land didn't think he could get us a plumber until Monday.

SUNDAY
We have no dishwasher, so no sink = no clean dishes. There got to be so many unwashed dishes that I finally loaded a bunch of them into the oven just so I wouldn’t have to look at them. In other words, I became a college freshman boy for the weekend. *Shudder*

I climbed out of bed that morning, with the thought, "Frigginay, that was a stressful dream. Tearful, smelly, messy nightmare. Glad that..wasn't......rea-" And then I saw it.

"Gooooooood morning, Shannnon," the mountain range of dirty dishes grumbled at me. "Good luck finding a bowl for breakfast." *BURP* "I think I ate them all. Mwaawgh haaw! hawwwg!" It was then that I lost my mind. I knew then, sink or no sink: I would wash these dishes if it killed me.

Initiate garbage can sink!

Activate cold shower rinse!

And yes, that is a photo of all of my dishes sitting on my bathroom floor. I can appreciate that it's a little gross, but desperate times, friend, desperate times.

It's like the worst part of camping AND I didn't get any smores.

MONDAY
It's Plumber Day! Callooh! Callay!

I stepped outside to greet the Roto-Rooter guy once I saw his van pull up and braced myself for the inevitable awkwardness that comes from being home alone with a fat old plumber dinking around in your kitchen. (I've been burned by some really awful locksmiths in the past, which probably explains my trepidation.)

But then out of the van came Steve. Gorgeous, 20-something, toothpaste commercial man Steve.

I'm sure the shock read on my face as soon as he saw me. This man was no ordinary plumber. Roto-Rooter seriously must have sent me a male model by mistake or something. A young, blonde, hunky plumber?! Agagagaga. I lost my mind for the third time this weekend.

He stuck out his hand and smiled, "You must be Shannon."
"Yeahthazzmee" was my eloquent greeting.

He sized up the kitchen and went back to his van for supplies while I ran to the bathroom mirror to size up my face and hair. Upon seeing myself I swore out loud. HOW WAS I SUPPOSED TO KNOW TO LOOK CUTE FOR THE PLUMBER? SONUVAB*TCH. I didn't look great, so I'd have to win him over with my charming personality. Uh, initiate charming personality!

At one point he asked, "So are you still a student?"

>>Uh oh, Shannon. He thinks you're like, 18. Play it cool.<<

"Me? Oh NOO, I graduated from college, what, like 2 years ago now? Man, I feel so old! HAHAHAHAHA!" I laughed way too loudly at this. I swear I was channeling the social grace of Liz Lemon or something.

I told him that I had tried to fix it myself to no avail and he admired my handiwork with the new p-trap.
"That's awesome." he said and he sounded like he meant it.
>>Yes...play up your plumbing skills, Shannon. That's all a plumber cares about.<<

"After all that frustrating effort, you must be happy to see me, then." he remarked.
"No, I'm pissed! It means I failed. I wanted to do it myself." I said.
>>Nice one! Tell the attractive plumber that you hate seeing him. That's a great idea.<<

There was silence at one point so I spoke up, "You know, you're not exactly what I expected to come out of a Roto-Rooter van."
He laughed, "I parked for a minute to finish listening to my radio show and then I saw you and I thought the same thing. You're not the typical customer."
>>Eeeee!!!<<

I gave Steve a glass of water and we ended up talking for a bit. He asked to see my graphic design work, we talked about how long he's been a plumber, we shared our favorite poop stories (don't ask). He loved the cat and kept picking him up! And man, I am so glad I remembered to ask him if I could take his photo for my Sink Saga blog post. It would've been awful if I had been so distracted by his beautiful face that I didn't even think about it until later.

He happily obliged me:

Now I know what you're thinking: a Roto-Rooter cape seems pretty impractical. You can't deny it's dashing, though.

Sink got fixed in no time. The problem ended up being a very gradual build up of food and food-decomposing oils, a common problem when you don't have a disposal. Clean up happened, bill business happened, yadda yadda.

By the time he was headed out the door, I was convinced that clogging your sink is the absolute best way to spend a 3-day weekend.

(And, Steve, if you're reading this: I'm 23, totally legal, and I swear I'm not usually that awkward, so you should probably call me. Don't make me break my sink again.)

Since when am I qualified to take peoples' headshots? Since never. I'm not. But "free" is a good price, and my lovely friends trust me, so I keep getting the opportunity to practice!

I love this crazy girl. We have the same height, sense of humor, and love of theatre, but Stephanie is more honest than me, which I think makes her braver than me as well. I get so wrapped up in trying to make everyone happy that I often feel like I've sacrificed a bit of integrity and sanity in the process. Stephanie tells it like she sees it, loves her friends unreservedly, and doesn't spend time worrying about the people who just plain suck.

One theory I have about growing up a short, petite female is that you're more likely socialized to have an innocent, sickly sweet personality to match, but Stephanie completely defies that. I actually thought Stephanie didn't like me for the longest time because I had put her in the Short Girl Box myself and the lack of pink sparkles in her vocabulary confused me. I didn't understand yet that Stephanie has a 6'2" personality. And for that I think she's awesome.