Martha Stewart’s Guide to Unclogging a Toilet in Six Easy Steps

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(1) Invest in the Proper Infrastructure: The key to success is a properly-designed toilet. I recommend those made by craftsmen in Portugal, where the ceramic is air-dried in the sun and there is a hand-carved seal of approval for quality. They may be more expensive, but my general rule of thumb is to pay five times more for all things.

(2) Buy Better Cleaning Products: A toilet should be cleaned every 6.2 hours, by the hired help of your choice. I only use Martha Stewart Toilet Bowl Cleaner, which is all natural and non-toxic. I know this because my grandson drank some, which made my daughter Alexis freak out and call Poison Control. Their response was, “Haha! That stuff is nothing but distilled water and a few drops of peppermint oil! That kid could drink the whole bottle and be fine!” They sure are a jolly bunch.

(3) Eat More Greens: A clogged a toilet is often diet-related. One’s body cavity residue should be a nice, smooth, sorbet-like consistency. To obtain this result, simply consume six to seven servings of organic kale prepared in a coconut flax backwash mixed with ginger. My hired help often comments on how bright and cheerful my excrement is. They love working for me, and cleaning my ceramic toilet is their favorite job. That’s what they say right before I pay them.

(4) Eliminate all Plungers: If you are using one of those terrible rubber toilet plungers, you should discard it immediately. They are harbingers of bacteria. You should instead purchase a wooden toilet stick made from light Walnut with an attachment that crawls through the pipes, thoroughly cleansing the porcelain. It has little web-like hands made from groupings of crushed diamonds that rotate using small gears. You can special order these from my favorite clock-maker Bernard in Connecticut.

(5) Stay at One of Your Other Properties: If all else fails and the above steps don’t work, which is surprising if you’re eating that much kale, it’s time to call your driver and take a trip to another one of your various properties. There is no use living in a house if you have sub-par toilets. You might also reconsider the very purpose of your life.

(6) Last Resort: Call a licensed, professional, organic, all-natural plumber. I’ve heard they are named Bob. At least that’s what is printed upon their shirts. Perhaps you can locate Bob through your various media connections. You shouldn’t be there for this – I recommend leaving town so that you don’t have to know what’s happening inside your home. Perhaps you should do some traveling. I recommend Portugal. They make excellent toilets.

 

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*this is not a real photo of Martha Stewart’s bathroom.  She did not actually write this. It’s satire. If you think she did, you need to move to Portugal.

photo:

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The house on the hill

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The rain came down, the stream rose, the winds blew, and beat against that house.  Yet it did not fall, for it was founded upon the rock.

Matthew 7:25

I recently moved. It’s closer to my fiancé, his children’s schools, a new life. I wanted a place similar to my old one.  I longed for land and privacy, gardening and chickens.  I’m here right now, writing to you upstairs from my new office.  I’m seeing the trees beat against the wind that rages atop this hill.

“You have an amazing view,” people say.  I nod.  But the breezes blow the deck chairs practically into the pool, and the wind doesn’t match my fire–based personality. “Have patience,” I tell myself.  We will ground this place.  So I drink warm things and cuddle underneath my blankets. I am searching for the perfect picture of a tree and I’m finding cozy small spaces.  But inside it all, I am unsettled.

The first time I saw this house, I was generally disgusted.  It was buried in the middle of overgrown weeds, on the top of a hill, a great divide between two valleys.  It was just an old stone house with an open-air atrium in the middle.  Too much work, too little interest, too much wind. The nice lady who lived here walked me around to show it off, but I thought “no thanks, honey.  I’ll pass.”  I especially loved the carpeted walls, which added that “if lieu of an insane asylum, just head to your living room” touch that we all so desperately need. I showed the real estate agent photos from my phone and we both laughed and laughed.

But here I am looking out from the upstairs window, nonetheless.  Because with a bit of time and reflection, and a healthy respect for the bathroom tub which fits seventeen people (go ahead and shovel me some shit in this life because I’ll just lolly-gag around in this ginormous tub and then bounce against this walled carpet, yo), it seemed to have great potential. It sits on several acres with an amazing view and is in a neighborhood with no homeowner’s association.  This appealed to my anti-seeing-people-all-the-damn-time sentiment. And it was close to Whole Foods. So no fights with folks about the height of fences, turkey chili at the ready.  SOLD. Perhaps it would hold great promise, with the right contractor, designer, and sweat equity.  I’m sure in time I’d come to love it.

Who are we kidding.  I am only one person.  Why do I need such a large tub? But mostly, I’m not a lover of change. Most the time I cling to the old like shoes, despite a busted heel or broken sole.  Because of what they used to be.  Because of the memories they hold.  I cherish the past even when it’s terribly broken. Maybe it’s my own soul that needs repair. What I’m certain of is that this house needs some tenderness.  And I wasn’t sure I was prepared to give it.

In theory, I was on board with this house-buying decision.  I signed all the paperwork and nodded my head and put a for-sale sign in my yard.  I told the children it was for the best and it was good to put the past behind us and got a new mortgage.  It was symbolic – a new future, a new life, a new start.  A marriage and new family loomed ahead, so let’s just go ahead and dive on in. But I was terrified. Also slightly amused at the cartoonish nature of this place.

The day I closed on my (now former) home, I sobbed. I cried out in pain for the ripping again, the tearing of things.  I brought my son home to that house.  I walked around it over and over, circling it in prayer.  I touched every wall for blessing and I baked grease into the kitchen stones and worn down the wood with my pacing.  I woke up in the morning and saw birds dancing and making love. I saw the changing seasons and the dew and the tiny buds of flowers.  This was not just a home, but a part of me that I needed to feel complete, to feel loved, to feel surrounded.  Oak trees in the back yard were bent by the wind just so to form a canopy, and when I walked underneath them I felt held.  And for that time in my life, I needed to be cherished by something. That house held me, and I loved it so.

And then it hit me. Who was I without that place? I began to feel my identity was lost.  When people come to visit me in my new house, I practically grab them the moment they pass through the entrance.  “This isn’t me,” I want to explain.  “I don’t like that wall or that set-up or those cabinets.  I promise this will all be changed. This isn’t my vision. This isn’t my home. I don’t do paneling.”  Hello, insecurity crisis.  Like my worth is placed inside the walls of a white kitchen. No one cares.  It’s me who has placed so much emphasis on a house like an idol.   It’s me who placed all my worth in something that could literally burn to the ground. I put my priorities in the wrong place.

I’ve never really worried much about idols.  The Bible mentions them like they were some threat – a mistake of the Israelites when Moses was gone for a while. But whether it’s golden calves or Baal or other strange looking statues, I’d never for the life of me consider bowing down to any of them. It’s one of those old fashioned notions that’s not practical to today’s lifestyle. “Have no other God before me.”  Check.  Duh.  Obviously.

And yet here I was feeling lost and alone without that old shoe. Like it was what had saved me, those stones my only protection.

This weekend, there was a horrible storm. It woke me up with a vision of demons, and I prayed for hours upon hours.  I begged God to bless this home, and to place upon this hilltop a beacon of light to others, a place where people can come home to instead of fall back upon.   This home may be on a solid rock, and the wind may blow, but it will not falter.  Because it’s not the home that creates blessings, it’s the Father who blesses.  Let this home be a haven and a light, based on a firm foundation. I wrestled with God about this for a while as the wind howled.  And then ceased.  I got up and went about my day, drinking coffee and sitting wedged inside my small front porch, looking at the rising sun.  I sang at church with all my heart.  I practically attacked my pastor and blubbered something about my house having a good spirit.  He was like “okay crazy lady.  Go on now and eat some more donuts.” Luckily, if his predictions are true about the crazy, I have padded walls so I’m totally covered.

And then I came home to this house on a hill. God bless this home, founded on a rock, wild and windy.  We named it “Hilltop,” because for some reason it needed to be named. Soon I’ll put a little iron sign in the yard stating such. Of course I will, because that’s the crap that I do. God also bless Mark, since he’ll be putting up with me.

What is founded upon rock will stand.  We will stand, and will keep on standing. For it’s in God we place our trust, not a pile of stones.  So let the wind rage.  This light will still forever burn.

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