Ah, suburbia. This morning, I awoke on edge and anticipating a new day of sunshine-y awesome pain and misery. Today was the day the plumber was due to snake our woes away.
The other day, the shower was draining slowly. Then, the next day, slower. Finally, I tried plunging and whatnot and got nowhere, apart from cramped up from awkward over tub hunching and plunging and generally working out my core in a very non-Pilates, unsatisfactory fashion. And, then, after I tried snaking it was clearly worser and worser still. As I hung out watching the bathtub waters not recede, M.’s suds and disposal action from the kitchen sink came to visit me in the bathroom.
We have what is called a “home warranty.” I ain’t never heard of such a thing back East, from where I hail. Nope, there, you buy an old house, because mostly everything is an old house, and it’s as it is. Old house and all. Ask Bob Villa.
But, here, you can get some sort of fancy insurance. The seller’s were kind enough to incorporate this fancy insurance into the agreement. For a co-pay, the plumber came to help us out of our misery. I’m not sure if it was a fair price, because I have no idea how much snaking costs in this ‘hood. But, it seemed easy enough.
Foolishly, I spent part of yesterday evening reading a thousand and one interwebs opinions on how much this kind of insurance sucks and how godawful fucked up bad the company we have is. They don’t fix anything, leave you worse off, but take your money easy enough. You never really can tell with internet shit. Afterall, the folks motivated to put electrodes to paper, as it were, generally have an ax to grind when they sit down and tap out their opinionated opus.
All’s I can report is I spoke to Fidelity Home Warranty on Saturday morning, and they gave me a plumber’s name and phone number and said he’d call on Monday to set something up. I got my snake, commenced to snaking, so all the back up and effluvia and called back in hours to let them know it was far worse than previously reported. Within in hour, as the sun was setting, they called back, apologized for not being able to get someone out on a Saturday night and said the same plumber who’s name they gave for Monday would be calling shortly. Sure enough, he called, and told me he’d be here at 11 a.m.
It was 11:20 a.m. when he showed up. I guess that’s my beef. Other than that, he took his powerful, electric professional style snake, told me not to peel potatoes in the disposal (I hadn’t. We haven’t actually cooked here.) and was on his way well before 12 noon.
My awaking with a sense of dread was for not. But, if next Sunday, the same jack off who was mowing or trimming at 8 a.m. today fires up his engines again, I’m going hunting for the most dangerous game with my weed whacker.
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