Saturday, September 13, 2014

What Shark Girl Has In Common with the London Sewer!

Husband came home the other day and said, “Have you heard about the fatberg in the sewers of London?” No, I hadn’t. Checking out the status of the London sewers is not on my daily to-do list.  
            “Well, let me tell you all about it!” said Husband, a little more fascinated than he should have been. “You see, they’re formed when people throw fat and wet wipes down their pipes.”
            “Oh, really? That’s nice . . . “ I nodded and smiled, half-listening, half trying to figure out 7-Down on the New York Time crossword puzzle.
            “Yes, and apparently those flushable wipes aren’t so flushable. The fat sticks to them, and then everything else sticks to that, all the waste and stuff, and it all forms a big blockage in the sewer.”
Yum!
            “Uh-huh …” Here goes Husband, demonstrating that “boy” fascination with poop. This morning 8-Year-Old Son had a sixteen-minute guffaw attack at the slight probability that there was diarrhea in a toilet. During breakfast, no less.
            “Yep. It was the size of a 747.”
            “Wait, what? I can’t use those flushable wipes anymore?” Reality was starting to hit me. I love those flushable wipes.
            “Yeah, not so flushable.”
            “Wait, but are people throwing the not-flushable ones down and that’s what’s causing the problem? Or are the flushable ones causing the problem?” I really love my flushable wipes, and it would be nice not to feel guilty using them.
Next they'll tell me I can't flush these!!
           “I don’t really know.”
           “Can they remove the fatberg?”
"Yeah, I guess they go in and unclog it.”
           
I think I understand how that sewer felt when they decided to Roto-Rooter it Terminator-style. You see, right now I am dealing with my kidneyberg, and it’s pretty much the same procedure. But my pipes are a lot smaller, and I’m a little more fleshy and have a few more nerve endings than a sewer pipe.

“Of course, you’ll be able to do whatever you want with the stent in,” the doctor said. “It may be a little uncomfortable, and you may bleed a little..”
            “Even contact sports?” I asked, hopeful not to miss out on too much jiu jitsu.
            “Even contact sports, as long as you are not in pain.”
So, with that, I got the stent in.

And let me tell you: doctors lie. To your face. And that is what I have in common with the London sewer. Neither of us can practice jiu jitsu right now.