So every time I flush a toilet and watch the water rising, rising upwards, I do a little tiny prayer to the plumbing gods that it’ll go straight back down the way it’s supposed to. Most times it does, but every once in awhile … plumbing disaster strikes.

Two weeks ago, on the fourth of July to be exact, I’m happily prepping the house for a good ol’ Independence Day barbecue with friends. My sweetie, who’s been away for the previous week, is due to arrive back in town in a mere half an hour, though since he’d been traveling with my friend Jen’s husband, she’s offered to do pick-up duty for me. Eagerly anticipating the boy’s return, and looking forward to spending the evening serving grilled goodies and entertaining some friends, I busy myself with doing some much needed housecleaning.

Now normally, the joyous task of cleaning the toilet goes to my boy, who, (a) as the member of the household that rarely takes it upon himself to decide to clean house, gets stuck taking orders from me in such matters, and (b) has the world’s worst sense of smell, and therefore copes with the task of getting up close and personal with the toilet a whole lot better than I do. Today, all alone in the house, I suck it up and settle down to scrub the bowl clean.