All packed up with nowhere to go

I do my absolute best packing when I'm two and a half minutes from leaving the house. I hardly forget things...and those that get forgotten? Really, they do indeed have a Target, a Walmart, a CVS or something similar nearby. This whole Let's Pack Today So We're Ready To Leave Tomorrow......Get A Jump Start This Afternoon?

Not my idea.

Is J's idea.

On paper, in theory, this looks like a fabulous plan. Unfortunately, it gives rise to the Inner Perfect Mom With A Cape (I am NOT that person, ps.) who whips the house into perfect shape, for a homecoming akin to entering a spa. Well organized outfits march across the bed, one with fresh sheets, a duvet cover with nary a dog print or fur upon it, all possible needs not only considered, but planned for. Dude, I'd be, like, so prepared I'd have time to whip up a healthy meal, in a shirtwasit dress, crinilin crackling, peals perfectly in place, before consulting my carefully already drawn plot plan for loading the Jeep.

Pucker? She's totally packed. Ready to go. Working out her Inner Energy Requirements for two days at doggie daycare. I'm so proud. It's 2pmish, and I've one child packed.

Three more, and myself to go.

Since the weather is going to be screwy at best - i.e., 70s during the day, but 50s at night, there's a good deal of layering going on. And while it was my (stupid, dumb, I don't even know why I suggested it) idea to pack for three days, and simply wash clothes while there? I honestly don't want to spend cocktail/snack hour wondering if it's time to roll the loads, if I got all the socks, underpinnings, tees and whatever else we got loaded with sand at the beach while everyone else relaxes with ease in the evening breeze. Pucker, laying, or playing nicely nearby.

Sort of Norman Rockwellish. Only with some Ozzy Ozbourne influence thrown in. I'm not sure any child has a collared shirt packed. While I've tried to make sure that each and every outfit matches each other on any given day (hello! photo ops!) I'm mentally preparing myself for that not actually occurring. Emotionally however, another kettle of fish altogether. One I have this distinct feeling that if I wade into those murky waters, J and all the kids will mutiny against me, totally not understanding the concept of how we will look in the pictures.

Okay, so I'm snotty. I think about these things. Not, mind, that that indicates I've picked out or packed a thing for myself; Lilly Pulitzer, for the record does not lend itself to matching camo shirts decorated with orange lettering of some coffee related thing or another. (I've learned to steer my eyesight away from shirts, so as to a, allow for someone to stretch his own stylish muscles, and b, not go blind.)

The real issue is that it's the first time that J et al is meeting my dad, and my step-mom. While I love them all dearly, the three kids when left to their own devices tend to resemble refugees washed ashore on the latest typhoon. Not exactly the impression I'm hoping to create. I figure, day three should be sufficient to display mismatched I didn't choose or approve of outfits that may indeed break the camera lenses.

So I'm doing my absolute best to respect style preferences, while instill some sort of decorum upon medium sized kids who really? Don't give a shit one way or another what they wear to play in the sand.

Damn.

I knew I should have waited until tonight to do this. At say, 4am since we're leaving at 5.

I'm having a bit of a day, and it's not even noon.

"You might have to wash the couch cushions....again..." wafting through the open door of the room I'm attempting to clean makes my hair stand on end. Naturally, as Foxy's not feeling well, (sinus infection) I retorted gently.

"Okay honey, no big deal."

Except it IS a big deal. It's a HUGE deal. A sizable undertaking in it's own right, double so since I just cleaned the sofa. As in Friday. Or was it Thursday? Whatever. It's been cleaned recently. Quite recently.

Deep breath. Kids are messy; this is what I signed up for, as a parent, especially of the mud magnet little guy I have. Amazing little guy, don't get me wrong, but sometimes? Just every now and again, I wish he was a tad more fastidious. Then again, perhaps not. I'm not sure I could tolerate watching him eat pizza, a burger, true finger food with a fork, so his hands didn't get dirty.

Come to think of it, that would drive me bananas. Of course, the dog bed cover just washed YESTERDAY? Has uneaten (apparently, my Garbage Disposal located something she didn't care for) banana smashed into it.

I don't do fruit flies. So that goes back into the wash pile. A pile that should be shrinking, not growing.

The dishwasher, in a rare display of spunk of it's own, didn't open the little door to let out the soap packet; so last night's dishwashing? Useless. Redo. Drat.

My tea cooled; zapped to rewarm, only to find that when removed the cup was so hot I burned my hand.

I'm just about ready to throw in the towel.

I cannot imagine what this afternoon will bring.

A boat load of laundry to fold and put away, of that I am sure. Everything else?

I daren't touch; I don't want to give any other appliance ideas about taking on their own destiny and whatnot.

Plumb crazy

There is a leak in a pipe.

An important pipe.

The elbow joint that connects my washer to the pipe that carries all the crappy water out to the street to be disposed of properly. Bless J's heart, he noticed it, when he went down to the basement for something else - not that I recall what exactly, details, details - and there is was, clear as the discoloration on the drop ceiling.

Right. J thinks it's the elbow joint, that I've managed (ahem, again) to totally screw up an appliances functioning abilities simply by either overuse, or stupidity (or a combination thereof). I went through in my head all the things one is not supposed to wash in your own washer.....floor mats loaded with sand from your car, beach towels loaded with sand, laundry coated in enough dog fur to recreate the dog.....realized that yes, I've washed all those things, and more. (But I won't say what, since sometimes J reads this, and well, I'm not up for another eye popping moment followed by a lecture on my inappropriate usage of said appliance).

Anyhoo.

I called a plumber, not terribly local, not far far away, who told me that next week, for a hundred bucks, he'd come take a look. Yeah....that's not really what I have in mind. Instant gratification and all that. So I called a local guy, recommended by three folks up here and voila'! He arrived bright and early (read: before I showered...grrr) this morning, to Visit My Piping. We traipsed upstairs and down, back down and then up again; Pucker avidly at their heels, me, trying to disguise the fact that four trips upstairs left me breathless.

I prefer to hide my current inability to do anything strenuous. Say, anything beyond breathing. While lying down. Preferably, in a comfy nest. I realize, it's my own fault: not walking my fat dog in bitingly cold weather leaves both of us in rather the same shape...but hello! It's COLD.

Right. The plumbing. We've established it's not the washer, or that elbow joint (which had me swooning, when I heard that sucker was a bundle to replace) - I had a leaky toilet joint nut/bolt thingie that honestly, I know is a bitch to handle, because T in VA and I took out her toilet, and the swearing that we did trying to undo those would make a sailor blush.

He tightened it, charged me marginally for his visit, picked up some puppy kisses, and was on his way.

I'm thrilled it wasn't due to Human Error in the Washer Limitations department. I came clean (pardon the pun) about exactly what I tend to shove in there (yeah, a little eye popping, but he's a freaking plumber, he's heard it all, I imagine) but no, is simply leaky bog.

Fabulous!

Am so exited, I go to flush some...er....ah.....stuff...I found on the floor this morning, and I'll be damned if perhaps he didn't overtighten it. The water went away, very slowly, and never came back. No scary noises this time, and really, I flushed hardly more than a sneezy tissue, so clearly, is not debris. So great, bog no longer leaking? No longer flushing either.

I'm gathering this is not good news.

I did not pay eighty dollars to do something I can totally do on my own: clear a bowl of water, only to never have it return.

I'll have J look at it, when he comes over, perhaps loosen it a wee tad - not enough to leak, just enough to refill the bowl. It's in my bathroom. My Library.

He and I were both right: it's a very important pipe, indeed.