I knew something was up the moment Hollis burst into my bedroom one Saturday morning. It was the faux nor’easter weekend, lots of rain and chilly temperatures. So I had luxuriated in bed a little longer than usual. Hollis looked surprised when she bounced in my room to see me there. “Oh, excuse me,” she said, quickly backing out.

And then just as quickly, she was back. “Can I use your bathroom?” she asked? I refrained from pointing out it should be “may I” because I had bigger problems.

For Hollis to choose to use MY bathroom rather than HER bathroom can mean only one thing: a stopped up toilet. Let me point out this is less Hollis’ fault than it is the whole NEIGHBORHOOD was built with too-small pipes, which forces the rather regular use of a plunger.

Already, Hollis has shown her tolerance for methane gas is higher than her ability to use a plunger.

“No,” I told Hollis, “you’re going to learn how to use a plunger.” She begged off. “Ewww! I don’t want to touch it,” she squealed as I flipped open the lid to reveal water as murky as a river in Thailand and less pleasant-smelling.

And so began Plunging the Toilet 101.

I placed the apparatus in the toilet and Hollis gingerly held the tip of the pole by one or two molecules of her fingertips while rotating her head nearly 180 degrees, her lips curled back in a grimace that made one believe she was about to give birth. It was like she was plunging nuclear waste, although given another day to fester in that bowl, it might have been.

I asked her to give it a plunge, and she pushed hard enough to create a tiny ripple. After three more pitiful plunges into that putrid puddle, I took Hollis’ hands, placed them on the plunger and then wrapped my hands around them. I showed her how to properly plunge, a skill that requires a careful touch – not enough force won’t get the job done, too much creates splash-back that can be catastrophic with a bowl in this condition.

It took  THREE flushes to properly get the bowl clear again, plus a few sprays of bleach. After replacing the plunger at its spot behind the toilet, we moved on to the kitchen for further house-training, in particular the hot chocolate powder that had been scattered – and then left – on my kitchen counter.

Hollis also finds touching a sponge “gross.” As those words came out of her mouth, my mind flashed back to a moment HAD I EVER uttered those blasphemous words to my grandmother, who took cleanliness to an almost unholy level. A sponge up a nostril wouldn’t be too far off.

The fact a 15-year-old girl had been allowed to even develop an aversion to touching a sponge would be unfathomable to my grandmother. To her, girls handling sponges to clean up after themselves would be as natural as breathing. And to be honest, some of my favorite memories of my grandmother was working with her in the kitchen, cleaning side-by-side. Sure beat ironing sheets, but I digress….

So Hollis grabbed a paper towel and attempted to disperse of the hot chocolate by simply spreading it around so it wasn’t as noticeable. I guess she figures if she’s bad enough at it, I’ll do it myself. She figures wrong.

So when she returns from her Christmas break, she will have a bright new sponge and some pretty yellow dishwashing gloves with her name on them under the tree. And perhaps one day even improved precision on pouring hot chocolate into her cup.