Mysteries of the Blue Dye and Clogged Sink

In spite of getting up many times at night for Andy, I felt good by 8 a.m. I thought, “I’m going to get a lot done today.” I didn’t anticipate any roadblocks.

I barely got started into picking up and cleaning when Terry said, “Where’d this come from?”

I looked over to see Terry holding one of the soft yellow cloths used for wiping his glasses. One entire corner of the cloth was

covered in what looked like blue ink. Worse, it immediately was evident that the blue dye transferred easily. It was on Terry’s hand, which he was beginning to flail. He has a habit of moving where he touches everything within reach.

“Stop!” I said, speaking loudly so he could hear.
He continued to flail.

“Stop moving!” I said louder.

He kept looking at the cloth and repeated voiced wonderment, “Where did this come from?”

“Stop it! Stop moving! Don’t move! Just sit there and don’t move a muscle.” I yelled. “Let me get over there.”

I had to negotiate two dogs, two large pillows used as dog beds, the bed covers Terry had kicked onto the floor during the night, and his clothes, which he also had thrown on the floor.

I took the cloth from him, picking it up gingerly to inspect the odd wet stain. I took it into the bathroom to assess whether it was salvageable. It wasn’t or at least a part of it wasn’t.

“Let me have it,” he said. I want to clean my glasses.

“No! You can’t have it. It has blue dye that transfers to everything it touches.”

“But I need it to clean my glasses.”

“You can’t have it.”

“Why?”

“Because the blue dye gets all over everything.”

“How do you know?”

“Look at your hand and the counter-top.”  Both had blotches of blue dye.

“Where did it come from?” he asked.

I scanned the top of the dresser counter. A packet of blue anti-gas pills with several of the cells popped empty laid there. It was clear what had happened. Terry had popped out one of the pills, but got it in the cloth. He then spilled his water, which wetted the cloth, dissolved the pill, and released the blue dye.

I took the yellow cloth into the kitchen, trimmed off the wet stain portion, and returned the remaining piece to Terry.
He was happy and began cleaning his glasses. As I turned and began to leave the room, he said, “The sink is clogged.”

“What? Which sink?”

“The bathroom sink.”

“Our bathroom sink?”

“Yes.”

That didn’t seem possible. The sink was new with the remodel. Nothing goes down that sink, except for soap and water. How could it be clogged?

“What did you put down it?” I asked.

“Nothing.”

“Don’t tell me that. I know you did something. What did you do?”

“Nothing!” he said, protesting. Then, in a voice that reminded me of a little kid trying to come up with an explanation for some errant deed, hoping I would buy it, he said, “Maybe it’s a hair clog.”

“Why would it be a hair clog? I don’t have any hair after the chemo treatments and your’s is short.”

In the bathroom, I figured out how to remove the plug. The plug fixture was unusual, not the typical up-and-down stopper found in most sinks. This stopper required the user to push down to close and another tap to pop it up open. Removing the stopper was easy, once I remembered how, by unscrewing the plug. I could see something stuck in the drain on the drain guard. I put my finger into the drain and swept the perimeter. Instantly I felt pain. I had sliced the tip of my finger. I couldn’t see what I had cut myself on.

I went to the kitchen and retrieved a small tool I use to clear drains. Pulling out the clog, it proved to be toilet paper. 

Toilet paper! What was toilet paper doing in the sink? Terry! This was typical of Terry.  Gads, he already had thrown two roadblocks in my way and the day was just starting.