'How'd the simple life get so complicated...?"

I was still in my shirt and tie when Henry belted out the panicked words no one wants to hear.

"Dad! Dad! There's something wrong with the toilet!"

Normally, that's enough to get someone moving pretty quick, but for some reason I could only push myself off the couch and amble down the hallway. Maybe I was afraid of what I would find there. Normally putting the words 'Henry' and 'bathroom' in the same sentence was enough to induce...well, certainly caution, if not fear.

He stood by the side of the bowl, pointing down, his eyes wide open. The water was rising slowly past the point of no return--heading for the top of the bowl and the tile below.

"Do we have a plunger?"

"What'd you do to that thing?" I asked, then shook my head. "Never mind." I looked under the sink, then remembered.

We are in a new house now, gradually moving things from our last place. I didn't need to look anywhere else, either, to answer Henry's question. Most likely, the plunger hadn't yet made the trip.

Well, that's a helpless feeling: watching the toilet water rise over the high-water mark, knowing your plunger is probably in a different zip code. All we could do was watch as the water slowed, then crested--just below the rim. We exhaled as one.

The relief was short lived, because that meant a trip to Target was in order. It wasn't quite what I had planned for the night, but a backed up toilet would trump even the best-laid plans. I changed my clothes and headed out into the damp night.

I realize that everyone has a plunger and there's nothing embarrassing about going out and buying one, but I would prefer to camouflage a purchase like that in a larger pile of groceries, the way you would try to hide a tube of ointment or a super-sized box of odor-eaters. I visualized myself whistling as I walked from the store, plunger perched over my shoulder like a rifle. That'd be awkward.

But if it was going to be awkward, why not go all the way? Anyone could go to the store, pick up a plunger and stroll out. Why not do it in style? Why not be memorable? Why not sprint into the store, shouting:
"Oh my God, oh my God, OhmyGodohmyGodohmyGod where are the plungers? WHERE ARE THE PLUNGERS? Oh, where ARE they?"

Well, I didn't do that, but the thought put a bit of a smile on my face. Here is where the genius of true marketing stands out.

The plungers were by the cleaning supplies, close to the check out lanes. But you can't just buy a plunger anymore. Well, perhaps someone can, but I can't. As silly as I'd feel walking into Target just to buy a plunger, I'd feel even sillier buying a $2 plunger that looked like someone made it in shop class--and then paying for it with a debit card. If I was going to break out the card, I needed to break double digits. That meant picking up the Michael Graves Design plunger, complete with an "easy carry bottom."

Why a plunger needed an easy carry bottom, I can't even guess. Wasn't that what the handle was for? And weren't handles, by definition, easy carry? Suffice it to say this plunger was far too graceful a tool for the sloppy job ahead of it. But it satisfied the price requirement, so I picked it up--by the handle--and turned to leave.

Then I noticed the pet supplies were in the next aisle.

That's how they get you. This pairing might seem innocent enough, but it was actually a devious plan hatched in a corporate board room somewhere. Anyone self conscious enough to buy the premier plunger instead of the $2 special would probably want to, as I mentioned before, camouflage his purchase and such a person--a man, most likely--would probably have a dog. And since he owned a dog, he probably spoiled the dog and therefore was out of dog treats.

Sure enough, back at the house, Jack was as short on treats as I had been on plungers. They even had one of his favorite kinds, which looked like and, I assume, tasted like bacon.

The evidence that this product placement was completely planned came at the checkout lane. Had I been a cashier, the sight of someone plopping down a $15 plunger and a bag of dog treats might strike me as odd. Not Dave, who manned the register that night. He just gave me a knowing smile as he rang up the purchase, as if the odd combination of products proved that all was right in the world; that everything was going according to plan.

"Have a nice night," he told me, pointing to the plunger in the bag.

I nodded and headed home.