"It'll be just like camping," I lied.

In the short time I've been a homeowner, I've learned the importance of stretching the truth. I really like our charming, old-fashioned light fixtures — means I'd rather watch football than spend my Sunday installing new overhead lights. Sure I'll rake the leaves, just let me wait until the weekend — means the weather forecast calls for heavy snow on Friday. And when the Future Mrs. Murphy calls to check on me and I hang up the phone saying, Of course the house is clean, I didn't forget your parents were visiting today — that means I've just flooded the laundry room and the dog is learning how to swim.

So you can forgive me, I hope, for this well-intentioned white lie: "It'll be just like camping!" I guess it's the sort of thing you have to say when you're trying to convince your fiancée that taking a shower is overrated. "At least our water bill will be low!"

But the water bill was the least of our worries.

A few weeks ago, sewage began filling our basement, pouring like a filth fountain from our sewer line. By any standard, it was unpleasant. Even Caesar, our dog who can make Limburger cheese smell like a rose, held his nose and whined.

What happened is the city "accidentally" ripped up our sewer line while doing construction on the street, "accidentally" poured 5 feet of concrete into the hole, and then "accidentally" covered the mess with pavement. And when I found out how much it would cost to dig up the street and repair the sewer line, I "accidentally" messed my pants.

So I called up the city, and found their bureaucracy both understanding and apologetic: "Sorry Buddy, not my problem."

A week of pleading, yelling, and threatening to use THEIR bathrooms for all our sanitary needs eventually cajoled the city into sending a crew out to fix the problem for free. They say you can't fight City Hall, but fortunately the Sewer Department is a long way from City Hall.

If you've ever smelled them, you know why.

We paid a steep price, even with the city picking up the tab. The week we spent without being able to wash the dishes or clean the laundry or take a bath — actually felt a lot like my bachelor days. But the Future Mrs. Murphy, having never been a bachelor, ruined the experience for me by refusing to let me wear the same pair of underwear every day.

I kept a journal of my experience being trapped in a house without sewer service, and I'll share a few excerpts here in the sincere hope that you gain a newfound appreciation for your running water and each flush of the toilet bowl.

Memoirs of a Broken Sewer

Day One:
Today I learned a good rhyme: "If it's yellow, let it mellow." Then I learned a bad rhyme: "When it's brown, time to frown."

Day Two:
Last night's visit to "La Taqueria" for dinner was ill advised. I've been doing a lot of frowning.

Day Three:
Good News! When you can't take a shower, you get to sleep an extra 15 minutes every morning. Bad News! Your co-workers won't be very nice to the new "Frenchman" in the office.

Day Four:
I think my hair actually looks better when it hasn't been washed. Then again, I also think college girls find me mysterious and attractive, despite calling me a "creepy old dude who steals our garden hose to bathe in the front yard."

Days Five and Six:
The smells emanating from my basement are so bad that I haven't been able to sleep in two days. Maybe the fumes are starting to get to me, because I swear the Loch Ness Monster is on the prowl down there. The Future Mrs. Murphy tells me I'm crazy, but the elves in my socks assure me I'm fine.

Day Seven:
The construction crew out front has begun to dig a new sewer line. And just in time, because the dog is starting to get territorial when we go outside to use the bathroom together.

Copyright © 2007 Andy Murphy
Please do not remove the copyright from this work.

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