Time to Call the Plumber
It
had only been about a year since the dastardly deed had been
done, so imagine my surprise when I heard strange gurgling
noises coming from the plumbing.
A few days later, honey came screaming into the bedroom at 4:30
in the morning, "The water won't go down in the shower and
the toilet won't flush."
It's 4:30 in the morning, I can't deal with this.
"Get the plunger!"
Finally, the water went down and things returned to normal for a
day, but a few days later we had a repeat performance. This time
the water ran over into the floor.
It's time to call the plumber.
I envisioned the worst possible scenario -- septic tank failure.
Those of us who live in the suburbs without city sewers have to
deal with the grossest of tasks called getting the septic tank
pumped. Since it had been only a year since it was cleaned,
there must be something dreadful going on.
City dwellers have not the foggiest notion what I'm talking
about, so let me tell you. A septic tank is sort of a mini
household sewage treatment plant. From what I've read, about 25%
of American households are on a septic system.
My daughter was off work, so she agreed to call the septic
service. I left a blank check for her to pay them -- envisioning
my bank account going down the toilet, if you'll pardon the
expression.
All day long, I bit my fingernails, getting periodical calls
from my daughter.
"I've called and left a message."
"They called back." "They are on a big job
today." Finally, at 4 PM after waiting all day,
"They are on the way."
By that time, I was off work. When I arrived home, the tank
trunk was in the driveway and my daughter was running from room
to room turning the water on and flushing. I don't know
what the septic guy was doing and was afraid to look.
Eventually, he came to the door and I went outside so he would
not have to come in. I introduced myself but did not offer to
shake hands. I hope he understood.
"It was just a plugged up tee," he said.
"Oh," I replied, wondering what a tee is and trying
not to look as stupid as I am.
"Sometimes the solids pile up at the end of the line and
block it," he said, writing out a bill for $125.
Oh, gross!
"You can just open up the tank and push the stuff down with
a stick to clear it if it happens again."
Not likely.
"I think I would rather pay you $100 to come and do
it," I joked.
I guess he must hear a lot of very tasteless jokes about his
line of work, so I tried to avoid saying anything obnoxious. I
was just relieved that it was not as bad as I expected.
Most things as expensive as a septic system come with an owner's
manual, but septic tanks are a mystery. I decided to read up on
the subject on the internet.
Suffice it to say; what should go into a septic tank is the
obvious. What should not is anything else from kitchen, bath,
nursery, or laundry, whether it says flushable or not.
I already knew that.
I decided that my selection of TP was probably the culprit. What
seems charming to people, is not so charming to the septic tank.
I visited my favorite discount store for a supply of scratchy
toilet paper that says "septic safe," and liquid
detergent to use for clothes washing and dishwasher.
I've become a septic use fanatic.
Honey has been in the shower long enough. He is flooding the
system. I'm knocking on the door. He may have to go to
work with shampoo in his hair today.
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