Friday, November 22, 2013

Red Letter Day

"In my professional opinion, I'd say your house has come down with a case of Pain-in-the-ass-itis."

Morning Readers,

I'd like to state, here and now, tea is no substitute for coffee. 

Yeah, I said it.

I'm not trying to split you all into steeping and brewing factions, but lets just say I had to settle for pumpkin flavored leaves for the last two days, and the results were disastrous. You may have even felt the Earth move slightly off its axis, prompted by my head repeatedly banging off the doorway.

On Monday, besides dropping the fact Husband likes to forget to take me on our dates, I mentioned I'm painting the cabinets in the kitchen. One of you sweet Readers asked that I take a picture and show the end result, and seeing as we'll be moving in the next few months or so, showing bits and pieces of the Split level seems like a good idea.

After all, you, my dears, have followed our beloved money pit for so long, don't I owe you a peek before we shove off?

So, yesterday, I dragged out the old Polaroid, searched for some film, and just as I was about to take a picture, a smell so foul wafted from the basement, that I remembered I hadn't actually finished the cabinets and there was a good chance someone had had harpooned a shark and left it to die in the laundry room.

With only tea to bolster me, I wandered downstairs into the stench. "It's not a shark," I breathed loudly.

Which was fortunate because I'd left the Polaroid upstairs. 

Quickly, I glanced around and took in the sewage, banged my head against the doorway, and bellowed up the stairs to the twins, not to open the door because the baby would fall down and kill himself.

Amidst children punching each other, I called the plumber. "Hello, Plumber?"

"No, this is the foundation people."

"Sorry, I randomly call people in my phone that I forgot to save because I, nothing personal here, never want to have to do business with them again."

Another couple tries later, the drain specialist was on his way, which gave the baby time to decide he's having some sort of one year crisis and refused to be put down. (Yes, I could put him down. I could also run around pulling fire alarms and sitting down to enjoy the sound, but, though I've been running on tea lately, I don't totally hate myself yet.)

I threw the door wide. "Welcome to our house. It's falling apart."

"Mrs. Kellerman?"

"Guilty. Now, follow me to the basement, and look out for the children. They bite. Also, before we start, how much will this cost me? This year's Christmas or this year and next year's Christmas?"

"Should only be a hundred fifty for the hour."

*Insert one hour filled with the baby not napping, more children fighting, and me remembering I'd forgotten to buy body wash at the grocery store earlier that morning. The realization I smelled like a lemur who just finished a marathon hit me hard.*

"Mrs. Kellerman?"


"We're going into overtime."


He shook his head. "Found a bunch of stuff down there. Baby wipes."


"You can't flush those."

"You can't? That's how I fill my Saturdays."

"Any idea who did that?"

I motioned to the garage door. "Yeah, I have a hunch it's the kid standing behind you waving a package of them."

"The one standing outside in the rain?"

"They get out the front door sometimes."

After dragging Butch inside and giving everyone a "Don't flush wipes" speech that no one was listening too, I ticked down the very expensive minutes, wrote the check, and made dinner. Husband got home and was briefed, before I realized he looked strange. Relaxed. He was questioned about this.

He shrugged sheepishly, "Oh, I got a off work a little early and got a massage because my back hurt."

"But we were going to do that together as a joint Christmas present."

"Don't worry, we can definitely go again. Why are you looking at me like that?"

What I looked like-------> 

"No, we wont. Because if you keep forgetting me on dates and getting massages while I'm making dinner with a screaming baby hanging off me, I'll move to Borneo before Christmas and assume the name, Countess Katrina Lady St. Helen, so I can't be found."

But don't weep for me. The drains are running clear around the Kellerman house and we're making nachos for dinner. High points abounding.

Until Next Time, Readers!