Well. I’m back.
I realize that this merits this question: “Wait. You were gone?”
There are a lot of snarky responses I can give here, but I’m too tired. Why am I tired? Because, I’m back. From vacation. And it’s that lovely time of returning when your entire surroundings seem to implode. Laundry. How in the world did so much laundry happen while we were gone? Does laundry know about the birds and the bees? Because, I am sure of it, there is some mad procreation going on in The Pit of Despair. AKA – my laundry room.
Also: Our plumbing exploded while we were gone.
I don’t really want to go into details, but let me just say this:
Poop happens. And evidently it’s happening a lot in my downstairs bathroom right now. BUT IN THE WRONG DIRECTION. When it comes to poop, the trajectory is really REALLY important.
I just want to cry.
My beloved mountains are a whisper of a memory, but I still have to wash dishes in a basin in the upstairs bathtub, so I guess I can pretend I’m kind of camping? Sorta?
No. Don’t ask. I have no idea really why I can’t use the sinks or dishwasher in the kitchen. The husband tried to explain about the pipes and connections and I just kinda glazed over into level Red of despair and overwhelmedness, because now what? POOP IN THE KITCHEN? POOP IN MY DISHWASHER? WHAT DO YOU MEAN, CONNECTED?
REALLY? Why don’t we just start shooting poop all over the walls in the living room, while we’re at it? I think it could be done with our salad shooter and a complete mental breakdown, don’t you?
Perhaps, I over-exaggerate. It’s my thing. And yes, I KNOW ‘over-exaggerate’ is redundant. I never said I was perfect! This is a post about poop! Let me get on with it! I’m upset! There’s grossness! And not enough scented candles in the state of Kansas to deal!
But, I did light all my favorite vanilla-orange candles from this place that I usually hoard because they cost a jamillion bucks each. It looks like the Roman Catholic church in here. And it smells divine. Almost like there’s no actual Hazmat scene of horror from the downstairs bath.
Sigh. I’m overwhelmed.
So, you know what I did?
I helped make masks of Toothless from How to Train Your Dragon. Yep. And then, I made a reading bed for the Blonde, and he read seven million Berenstain Bears books to me while I typed this post.
Disclaimer: I want to make it clear that my house is not a disgusting dripping mess of brown stuff. It’s just in the bath. The bathtub, to be exact. The husband has promised, on his life, that the brown water will be gone tonight. Until then, I grip harder to the Lysol bottle, and just. Don’t. Go. In. There.