That Time I Flooded the Bathroom

Let’s plunge right in to one of the many adventures I’ve had with my three roommates—Fern Schiffer ‘25 (English), Tara Harbo ‘25 (English and Studio Art) and Josie Ryan ‘25 (Biology)

By Natalie Nemes

The water came in like the rising tide, cascading over the toilet bowl rim with a decisive ploosh. Apparently, holding down the flush handle for 10+ seconds does not, in fact, solve the issue of a clogged toilet. Oops. Of course, I knew that, but logic doesn’t quite always translate into action. As the saying goes, sometimes you have to learn the hard way.

I watched as the puddle expanded, tracing a path from the toilet to our bathroom door. Damn it. Nothing to do now except clean it up. I tried to wipe the panic from my face and headed for the kitchen for some paper towels, but something in my eyes must’ve given it away because my two roommates sitting in the living room noticed that something was wrong immediately. Looking up from their phone, Fern asked me if everything was fine.

“Er, yeah! Just … don’t go in the bathroom.”

So, naturally, Fern and Tara both followed me to the bathroom.

Tearing off fistfuls of paper towels from our roll in the kitchen, Tara and I tried to dry the floor as best we could before the water could leak into the carpet in our hallway. We quickly realized that paper towels just weren’t going to cut it—they were soaked through almost immediately—and I grabbed a real towel. This seemed to expedite the process, if only a little. Well, our floor might be tainted with toilet water, but it could be worse. It could’ve reached the carpet, or damaged our bathroom floor, or we could’ve been stuck without cleaning supplies or a plunger.

Tara was apologizing profusely for clogging the toilet, completely ignoring the fact that I was the idiot who thought that holding down the toilet handle for an extended period of time was the best course of action when I could clearly see that the water was rising instead of disappearing down the drain. Of course, this spiraled into a good natured argument over whose fault it was for our swamp of a bathroom and, by extension, a debate regarding who should and who should not be assisting with clean up. Tara refused to let me take care of it. (Fern, who is usually the moderator of these types of arguments, stood to the side a bit like a supervisor who finds it mildly amusing to watch sixteen-year-olds at a fast food job try handling kitchenware for the first time. They contributed by taking pictures of the event. For posterity, obviously. As they should.)

Tara and I drowning in a mess of toilet water and towels. Photo by Fern Schiffer

But we must have been talking a bit too loudly—to be fair, it was around midnight—because our fourth roommate emerged from her room, eyes half-closed, looking rather confused. After gauging the situation and listening to our varying accounts of The Great Flooding, Josie decided we needed a mop bucket and promptly dumped the trash out of her garbage can into the one in our kitchen, then filled it with water. (Notably, we do not have a mop. I am not entirely sure where Josie was going with this, but I can’t really blame her because the mind does funny things when you’re tired and it’s the middle of the night. To her credit, Josie was the one who actually unclogged the toilet with the plunger.)

After convincing Josie that it was okay for her to go back to bed and that we could handle the situation, we spritzed our bathroom floor with lemon-scented generic brand cleaner and sanitized it to the best of our ability. (It smelled like artificial lemon and bleach there for the next two days.) The bathroom floor—and our poor, poor toilet—lived to fight another day. We cleaned up the disaster I had created—together.

I often wonder what it would be like to live alone—perhaps in a one-bedroom apartment or in a dorm devoid of companionship—and come home to an empty couch and silent living room. Although I lived in a single dorm last semester, my current roommates all lived on the same floor as me, so I was able to visit my friends any time I needed to borrow their kettle or study somewhere that wasn’t my room or complain about an assignment I had been struggling with. There’s something special about being able to live and exist in the same space with others who are also growing into adulthood and navigating the liminal space that is college. It’s a tumultuous time, rife with mistakes and existential dread and mental breakdowns that just make you want to lie on the floor and stare at the ceiling while it spins like a top in a dream. So, to my roommates and friends, who are always willing to brew me a cup of tea and offer up advice at the end of a long, hard day—thank you for always mopping up the overflowing mess of my life with me.