So, my brownstone boy kept in touch and invited me out for dinner one rainy night after our Australian Day rendezvous. And, what do I do? Clog his toilet.

Yep. I use cheap, thin toilet paper and, typically, a lot of it because I’m germ conscious. He uses the good stuff. You know, the stuff that only requires one sheet per use. The kind of stuff Sheryl Crow referred to in her piece about saving the earth. We don’t all play the guitar and sing to earn a substantial living, Sheryl… Please.

I won’t bore you with the gory details but suffice to say, I overindulged in the paper during my visit to the 4^th floor powder room. As soon as I flushed, the words “Houston, we have a problem,” flashed through my mind. The water calmly churned its way to the brim.

I panicked and immediately did my cross and said a prayer. Something along the lines of, “Sweet Jesus in Heaven, please, for the love of God and all the Disciples, please, do not flood this bathroom! The bedroom is on the 3^rd floor, for Christ’s sake!!” Thankfully, my prayers were answered. In part… It didn’t flood but it also didn’t flush. I was left in purgatory. Note to self: don’t punctuate prayers with “for Christ’s sake!!!” He doesn’t like that. At that point, I did the only thing I could. Closed the lid and left the scene.

I joined him in the bedroom in the most rated G sense. He was a perfect gentleman, of course, and I’m no harlot. (How could I be, I was having angina over the commode situation!)

My dilemma haunted me all night. At the crack of dawn, I texted an early riser and wrote, “In panic, clogged toilet above bedroom in mansion! Prince Charming still asleep! Ideas???” Her response, “WHAT????? ROTFLMFAO!!!!!” Some friend.

I knew I had to find a plunger. I quietly rolled out of bed and began my search like some kind of cat burglar in this man’s home who I’ve seen in person approximately 3 times. (No, I am not a slut. I prefer the term, “minx.”)

Anyway, I ran up and down those stairs searching every crevice of that home, every closet, under beds, kitchen cabinets, etc. to no avail. I considered leaving at that point and, of course, moving to another city but I was too tired. I crawled back into bed. Defeated. By a toilet.

As I lied there, I replayed the evening in my mind. I should have known better. It started off with a last minute decision to change purses. I had my “friend” and my new accessory was devoid of “supplies” which I discovered at dinner during an impromptu visit to the ladies room. Fortunately, I had a quarter. Unfortunately, the panty-saver machine was on E. The writing was on the wall, “GO HOME NOW WHILE YOU STILL HAVE YOUR DIGNITY.” Nope, I thought I could inconspicuously visit a CVS at 1am.

So, here the plot thickens. Not only did I clog the toilet but earlier in the evening I had to confess to my womanly curses.

Then, a light bulb went off. (Not on his side of the bed, thankfully. But rather, in my head.) When I told him my dilemma earlier, he said I was welcome to check the bathrooms for any female necessities. I checked the master bath first. When I searched the house after the clogging, I neglected to check the master bath because, in my delirium, I thought I checked there. Well, I did, Professor Plum, BUT that was approximately 1 hour before the “incident” and I was searching for female clues to solve the 1^st crime not male clues to solve the 2^nd crime!

I sprung out of bed like a 5 year old on Christmas morning and sprinted to the master bath! Sure enough, right in plain site, sitting next to the toilet was the golden plunger. I took 2 steps at a time to my private graveyard on the 4^th floor to exhume and flush all evidence of foul play. Within seconds, my urgency to join the witness protection program swished down the drain.

Phew!

After sanitizing every inch of the crime scene, and me, I slumped back into bed. Prince Charming started to stir. All of a sudden, it dawned on me. What if he heard the whole thing?!?! What if he heard the cabinets banging? Me running up and down the stairs? What was my excuse? Exercise???

Well, can I just tell you? I had to take the plunge. As I confessed, the poor man (1^st thoughts, I’m sure, “you checked EVERY space?” and “wacko.”) just shook his head. As we were getting up, I went to brush my teeth. He hollered, “Don’t go clogging the toilet again!” Real funny.

You’d think the great comedian in the sky would have been done with me at that point. Alas, no. When I came back into the room, to my horror and disbelief, I couldn’t help but notice a telltale red stain on my side of the bed…

I casually tossed the top sheet over the fitted sheet and ushered him downstairs. While he was making breakfast, I inexplicably ran upstairs, tore the sheets off the bed and threw them in the wash. My first instinct was to start the washer but it was very clear that luck was not on my side and my next stop would have been the Tobin Bridge if the washing machine pulled a Bobby Brady.

Fortunately, I knew where to find the clean sheets. I pulled it together, grabbed a bagel bite and ran out the door in a cold sweat anxious to get back to my septic-safe tp and considered a one-way ticket to Guam.