Oh, Poo. (Part Two.)

When last I’d posted, I was ankle-deep in soapy-washer-poo.

Anyway, while on the phone with homeowner Bob, I ran upstairs and turned on the kitchen tap, as well as the master tub (per his instructions)…and then ran at warp speed back down to Taylor’s bath. (The warp speed was my idea.) After several seconds of strained silence, I heard the now-familiar “wooooosh-gurgle-gurgle” and proceeded to observe yet another gush from the shower drain, which quickly soaked the bathroom floor, basically turning my previous efforts to sop up the muck to moot.

“Okay…we’ve definitely got a problem!” I yell, raising my voice to be heard above the spewing-swooshing-gurgling hullabaloo.

“Turn off the water! TURN OFF THE WATER!!!” yells Bob.

“Okay….OKAY!!!” I yell back…already clambering up the stairs to the upper level.

“Well, it must be the septic” says Bob.

“Oh, crap” I say.

“Exactly,” says Bob.

I must interject here, faithful readers, that I know absolutely nothing about septic. I am (and have always been) a sewer kinda gal. Say it with me now: “EWWWWWWWW.”

“Just call someone out of the phone book to come and pump it out. From the line in the garage, it’s 13 feet off the front of the house,” he replies hurriedly. “Oh…and sorry you’re stuck doing this. Call me when they’re done.”

And he’s gone.

So, I call a friend...and that friend calls another friend...who knows a guy...whose next door neighbor recommends the name of a local company. I’m told to tell them that “Wayne sent me”.

Okaaaay.

The girl who takes my call says they’re happy to help and after confirming by yelling to some background unknown male entity, she informs me that even though they’re booked, they can squeeze me in tomorrow.

“NO!” I say in my best don’t-mess-with-me mom-voice. “I have no water here! I can’t wash the clothes…or wash my hands…or flush, for God’s sake. It has to be today…and soon.”

After checking once again with background-unknown-male-entity-guy, she informs me that yes indeedy, they can come by later on today.

Good.

About two minutes before Connor’s bus arrives, I hear the beep-beep-beep announcing the coming of the big, red septic truck. We’ll call the septic guy “Frank”…’cause anything’s better than being referred to as “Septic Man”, right?

Frank begins his quest for the magical entrance to the land of the stink by eyeballing an approximate 13 feet off the front of the house. He then raises his five-foot-long crowbar and hits the grass…going down approximately six inches. Then he rocks the bar to the left, then to the right…and then he raises one arm to the sky and dances all the way ‘round in a circle. (C’mon…you knew that was coming…right??)



After replicating this maneuver three more times, without seemingly hitting the underground treasure trove he sought, I can’t help but to comment. “I really don’t think you’re 13 feet out…and isn’t there something about a ‘line’ in the garage? Nice moves, by the way…”

“Thanks,” he answers shyly. “What line?”

This is the moment when I should’ve realized we were in trouble.

Stay tuned~