When I was nineteen I was the manager of a large multi-screened movie Cineplex. Before the doors were opened to the public and the staff had yet to trickle in, I would wander around the vast cavernous lobby and stroll up and down each theater and marvel that some middle aged man promoted me because I wore an insanely short skirt I was left in charge of this business. At nineteen. Somebody thought I was responsible enough to play God with the lives of the employees and trust me not to burn the place down.

Trippy. I like to think those days of micromanaging forty or more pimply faced teenagers gave me an insight and some skill into one day parenting my own little hormonal teens.

I used to marvel at the magnitude of responsibility I had somehow found weighing upon my shoulders. Then I had children and became a homeowner.

Now I’m wishing the only real responsibility I had was whether or not I remembered to order enough popcorn seed for the week.

Up until lately, I thought I had this responsibility thing down pat. The weight of twisting raising small children into productive members of society (read: Off the pole and out of the clink) never seemed a burden too heavy to bear.

Then my husband ran off to go and chase his dreams. Leaving the well-being and safety of not only his children but also his home to me, the chick who has trained her young and impressionable children to tell everyone their mom is an internet porn star.

Perhaps not the wisest choice on my husband’s behalf. But I love the misguided vote of confidence he gave me.

Now I’ve got all the responsibility of being a grown up with out the safety net of another to catch me when I falter. Good times.

But I pride myself on being a self sufficient, independent woman. I don’t need no stinking man. If I bury my car in a snow bank, I can shovel myself out. If my furnace stops working in the dead of the winter, I can call the furnace fixer people as well as the next guy.

So when I noticed that if one runs the water in my bathroom sink the toilet starts to burp and fart and overflow, I didn’t panic.

All right, I panicked a little.

But then I phoned my husband only to get his facking voice mail got a grip. I could fix this. How hard could it be to unplug a toilet, I rationed. I’m the only one who uses this toilet and I know what goes down it. And the particular size of ahem, what is going down.

Easy peasy. This is why God invented the plunger. Not just so my brother could suction it to my stomach as a small child and lift me up off the ground, leaving me squealing with laughter and sporting a giant purple plunger hickey. Right?

So I rolled up my sleeves, made friends once again with a plunger and eyed my toilet.

Picture me straddling my toilet and thrusting away at the plunger as though my very life depended on it, water splashing everywhere. This is what my son walked in on.

“Um, Mom? What are you doing?” he called from the safety of the bathroom door.

“Besides the obvious? Well, I thought I needed an upper body work out and the plunger looked lonely. Wanna grab some paper towels to mop up this water, please?” I responded as I continued to pump away at my blocked toilet.

(Side note: Ever notice what a disgusting sound the plunger makes? Kinda like a queef, but worse.)

“Not really,” was his response. Not that I blame him. But seeing as I was indisposed at the moment, I shot him my mom look and he slunk off to do what he was asked.

Just then the clouds parted and a heavenly light from up above shined on my head, bathing me in a golden glow. With a sudden gurgle, the overflowing water receded from it’s porcelain banks and flowed back into the ocean sewer line.

I couldn’t believe it. I did it. I fixed my own plugged toilet. I could hear a chorus of angels singing heavenly praise from up above.

Just then Frac walked back in with the roll of toilet paper. “Victory, my sweet son. Just look what a little bit of hard work and effort can do,” I crowed as I wiped the sweat off my brow.

“Um, Mom…”

“That’s right, sugar. Whose your momma now?” I chuckled as I started wiping up the mess.

“Well you are, I guess. But is the water supposed to be coming up into the bathtub like that? And why is it brown?”

Suddenly that chorus of angels turns into the cackle of a thousand little sewer demons, laughing as an inch of brown water filled my bathtub and just sat there. Great. My very own cesspool. I always wanted one. In my ensuite bathroom. Meters from where I sleep. Lucky me.

“Damn it.” Understatement of the year. (Granted the year is young, but wow, are we off to a fine start.)

“Want me to call Dad?” Frac offered. Apparently that snarl sound I made must have convinced him to back slowly away from me and he went to go hide in his room.

“What for? I fixed the toilet didn’t I?” I called after him. “Just because I’m a woman doesn’t mean I can’t handle a little shit in the tub, kiddo,” I muttered to myself, like a crazy woman.

But face it; there is shitty water in my tub and no signs of draining any time soon. And my husband isn’t home to clean it up while I pretend to be busy in another room.

I hate being a responsible grown up.

Doesn’t this give a whole new meaning to “losing my shit?”