So not only was the disposer shot and the sink clogged, but the dishwasher couldn't be run, since it drains into the same place as the disposer. Happy holidays to us! Perhaps you'll understand why I was eagerly pulling out the Yellow Pages that Christmas night, hoping to find a drain savior—evening and holiday surcharges be damned.

"Wait a minute, wait a minute," my husband said, advancing two paces. "I can fix this."

And so the kitchen sink face-off commenced in earnest. Our guests began to vacate at the speed of shoppers rushing to the store on the morning of December 26. My parents said their good-byes—mumbling "Delicious…really!—and evaporated. I heard the familiar boop-boop as my friend's husband unlocked their car and she waved and fled, vanishing into the night. Our two sons, sensing an impending showdown, took their marshmallow shooters to the basement for a quick round of "I Killed My Brother" before bed.

"C'mon. It's not so bad. It's just a clogged disposer," my husband insisted. "Now move out of the way. I can fix this."

"When—tomorrow morning, when you need to be helping the boys assemble the Lego Death Star?"

"The Death Star can wait."

"Do you really want to spend your December 26th on your back, under the sink, with 10 pounds of grease-soaked potato peels about to fly into your face?'

Let's just say that the $238 we paid to get that sucker snaked the next morning was probably the best present we've ever given ourselves.
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