I shutter to think of the reaction from my parents if I had actually announced my intention to go into plumbing. I can already see the dollar signs of thirteen years of private school and four years of private college scrolling over my Dad's eyes. To be clear, plumbing is an admirable, and much needed profession, but my admission to trade school would have destroyed my high school's 100% four year college acceptance rate. Moreover, even if I had identified plumbing as my chosen career, I would have been sorely out of luck on the BSC campus, as I'm certain there are no plumbing (or otherwise technical) classes anywhere in the course catalog. So alas, I opted for the more parentally acceptable career (albeit short) choice: law. Unfortunately, I was reminded today exactly how unprofitable my choice was.
It all started about 9:00 this morning when, after putting Emma down for a nap, I began my morning chores. As I was scrubbing down the kitchen island, I heard a familiar "gurgle" from the sink. I gently leaned over the counter to inspect the situation when I saw black sludge bubbling up. In a minor panic, I threw the switch to the garbage disposal praying Jason had crammed an entire ham down the drain but forgotten to turn the disposal on. No such luck. Instead, the sludge continued to rise and was now, due to the disposal, spraying the walls of the kitchen. Considering whether to grab the plunger, I began to hear the sound of water flowing in the next room. I quickly stepped into the den where the washing machine was pouring out water and flooding our den. After a quick flashback to the Great Flood of April 2006, I slammed the machine off, grabbed some towels, rolled up my jeans and emailed for help--for a plumber recommendation that is.
And because some of us are "visual learners" here is what my kitchen sink looked like after the rapids died down (and yes, I've already thrown away that passy...):
And the den:
Several great recommendations and one hour later, we had a plumber, Ronald, to the rescue. He unloaded 1 tool (which incidentally resembled a box fan) and just 25 minutes later (10 of which he spent babysitting the sink while he ran hot water down it), he declared my problem solved! He next asked for a permanent marker which he used to write his name and phone number on the inside of my sink cabinet door (bar bathroom style) for the "next" emergency (honestly, you can't make this stuff up people). Then, he handed me a bill for 25 minutes of work totaling $385! Now, I'm no math whiz, but his hourly rate far exceeds the vast majority of most billing attorneys in Birmingham and sounds more like those charged by Heidi Fliess. As I painstakingly wrote the check and handed it to my now good buddy Ronnie, I caught myself just before audibly uttering the only phrase I found fitting, "Thank you sir, may I have another."
So the moral of the story? Somehow, I managed to indebt myself thousands of dollars to get an education for a profession that requires more hours, is certainly more emotionally taxing, and receives less pay than my neighborhood plumber. Sure practicing law doesn't require you to stand in "literal pooh" or be on call for emergencies in the middle of the night, but I'm not sure "legal pooh" is always cleaner and with crackberries, lawyers might as well be on call every night.
So this one's for all the Joe-the-plumbers out there. Thank you for all you do and may you enjoy every minute of your higher tax bracket.
