Not for the squeamish?
Okay, I was just going to leave my toilet troubles blog as it was, as it seems I’ve already delved into the world of unmentionables enough this week as it is, but I just have to share. When I called my landlord about the plumbing problem, he came over, stood there with his industrial plunger, and scratched his head. Then he asked the question all men ask when a woman alerts them of a plumbing problem: “Are you flushing Tampax down there?”
I seethed. First of all, who calls them Tampax? Judy Blume? Margaret? Second of all, NO. I don’t know anyone who doesn’t know you’re not supposed to flush tampons down the toilet, and I resent my 60 year old male landlord (I mentioned the Keds, right?) attempting to school me on the Menses Facts I learned in fifth grade.
Then he says, “Well, maybe there’s something from your makeup case down there.”
I could not help making the face I’m sure you would make, had someone wearing Keds said this to you. “What?”
“Well, the back of the tank is sloped, and one time we had a girl rest her makeup case there, and it slipped, and some mascara clogged up the pipe.”
Dude. So it’s some past tenant, some Caboodle-owning, Tampax-flushing broad that’s making the rest of us look bad. I am well-versed enough in basic physics not to place anything I treasure on a slope overlooking a bowl of toilet water. I said tersely, “No, I don’t think so. I don’t put anything on the back of the tank. Since it slopes.”
My landlord: “Huh. Guess I’ll have to plunge it, then.”
Like this hadn’t already occurred to me.
What does he think I do all day—stand there curling my eyelashes and stuffing the pipes with tampons? Where is he getting all these horribly stereotypically feminine ideas of me?
Maybe he’s been reading my blog this week.