I kept the tv off as much as I could. I avoided Twitter like the plague. I don’t want to hear about innocent children getting murdered, so I try to hug mine a little closer (as long as their faces turn the other way so I don’t get covered in nose-slime or cough-phlegm) and get on with whatever it is we do around here.
I cry when no one is looking. Then I distract myself and go about my day.
So I’m battling the lineups at Walmart (I hate Walmart) so I can get photos printed (I don’t hate Walmart for that) and I get a text just as I’m finishing up at the cashier. Pick up paper towels, rubber gloves and disinfectant.
No way I’m going back into Walmart now that I just finished. Besides, didn’t I just buy a carload of paper towels? And there are rubber gloves in three places at home. And two cans of disinfectant too. Am I the only one in the house who knows where we store stuff?
I get home. He’s covered in icky stuff. He doesn’t look happy.
He’s cleaning up sewage which backed up into the house.
So much for my cookie backing, present wrapping plans. Plumber will call half hour before arriving at the house, anytime between noon and 4 pm.
We go out for lunch. Make everyone pee there, at the restaurant.
He calls at 4. It’s raining. So fun. But plumbers are my new heros.
$175 later and a snaked, cleaned outdoor trap under the mushroom thingy, we’re good to go.