I wonder if they sell diving bells at OSH. I think I should have bought one or a scuba suit with a mini-sub and telescopic probe for Grumps last Christmas. It would have looked good under the tree, and the wristwatch went over like a pregnant pole-vaulter. His real obsession is the drain game, anyway. Dumb me.

Here’s the deal. When a drop of precipitation falls from the sky, Grumps gets his game face on. It’s the battle of the drains, and so far, he’s losing.

His nemesis? The redwoods, melaleucas, sequoias and oaks— all with twisty, manipulative roots that invade his drains and create havoc in the logical movement of water around our home in nature’s battleground . . . Wildwood.

Really, this is the Super Bowl of suburbia without Janet Jackson or The Who. Or that goofy ring that doubles as a soup spoon or gravy ladle.

“Last I checked, the drains were clean as a whistle,” Grumps preens as the clouds stalled above Camino de Catastrophe. “Running smoothly. My new system works.”

Oh, yeah?

So begins the standoff with Mother Nature, who can’t be fooled, remember? First . . . the staredown.

“It’s starting to rain. Twotenths already.” Measuring water as it falls from the sky is part of his DNA because he grew up on a farm and relies heavily on his John Deere rain gauge. St. John Deere, excuse me. Can you hear the violins swell in the background? Not an ordinary water measuring device. John Deere is one of the Founding Fathers as far as he’s concerned.

It’s Grumps versus the rising tide, so intense even a fully loaded margarita won’t ply him away from the window.

“Honey, I’ll get out the blender.”

Doesn’t faze him. Doesn’t blink or twitch. Doesn’t even fake me out. With each drop, he scowls like Joe Frazier glaring at the mug of Muhammed Ali. The only ropea-dope around here is Grumps the Dope, pacing by the back door waiting for his moment to get in the game.

First down. He goes for the reverse. “Oh, there’s a little standing water,” he notes. “But I think everything is fine. Maybe I’m just obsessed.”

Ya think so? Nah.

I try to fake him out. “Honey, I’ve always wanted beachfront property.” Grumps doesn’t laugh. This is a tough room. It’s third and 14. Do we go for the first down or punt?

Oh go for it, baby, go. Grumps makes the dash to Home Depot to rent a drain unclogging contraption that looks like a relic from the Tower of London. I think it has Anne Boleyn’s DNA on it.

Be still my clogged drains. Grumps is on the way to save the day. And throw himself into the feisty waters of Thousand Oaks as each drop falls. I think he counts ’em.

“I bet we’re up to nine-tenths,” he laments. I prefer a fifth myself.

It’s 3:30 p.m. The water has crossed the ribbon of bricks, Grumps’ line of demarcation. Four hundred forty-four thousand twenty-seven drops and counting. We’ve waited till the last minute to race to Home Depot, so it’s almost dark, driving Grumps into serious panic mode. Inspiration comes with a deadline.

That’s when it’s really fun, see.

So I throw another short one. “Honey, let’s get a canoe!” Grumps didn’t take the bait. No smile, not even a smirk.

With battle gear on, he enters the fray. Knee-deep in muck and mud and tormented by slow-running water, Grumps chews up his opponent but gets stopped at the line of scrimmage.

He fights, he squirms, he grabs a gnarly root in an effort to score a slick drain, to hear the sound of water running smoothly, to know he can sleep tonight.

“Honey, it’s dark, it’s freezing, my rubber gloves with the little ruffles are really getting grungy. Can we stop?”

I decide it’s time to throw out my best stuff, time for the Hail Mary pass. “Sweetheart . . . I’ll get the Jacuzzi going with extra Epsom salts and make you a cocktail.”

The whistle blows. The clock stops. He takes the bribe and ends up in hot water with the newspaper, an adult beverage and the soothing song of water singin’ in the drain. Just singin’, oh singin’ in the drain. . . .

You can reach Elizabeth Kirby at kirby@theacorn.com.