Our neighbor across the fence once asked me if we’d lived in this neighborhood in ’55 when…
And I told her I hadn’t been born yet in ’55, much to her chagrin, judging by her reaction; my hair was grayer than hers, and I guess she’d just assumed…
But our house was. Which is why today after I’d bleached and cleaned all three bathrooms (we added the third to keep our then-about-to-be-teenagers from killing each other) yet again after the second go-round on the plumbing we thought we’d finally fixed, I was not entirely Little Miss Sunshine today when the shower pans announced yet a third time that they really really needed a Zofran equivalent in their system.
I have my sister flying in from Washington State on Monday afternoon. We were going to wash the already-clean linens on the guest room bed, just to make sure they weren’t dusty. Right now I would settle for being able to tell her she can use the bathrooms safely.
I will have a plane to meet.
And a plumber who should be making good on his short-term warranty, who came out last month, who doesn’t work weekends, and I’m too cheap to call someone else and we’re still trying to fix it ourselves. It keeps starting to be okay and then–not. So someone has to be home to meet the plumber Monday, assuming we’re still at it, and at round three, I think the squirrels are slapping their thighs and telling human jokes on us. (They lost rounds two and three on the birdfeeder so far and could use the comic relief in the face of their dire deprivation.)
Happy almost-Father’s Day! (Toilet snakes are a manly art. No, no, I insist, Dear, go right ahead.)
(Edited to add:Â So I did what any reasonable knitter would do: I blocked the seacell/silk shawl on that guest bed while I still could, keeping the rinsing water in the sink to the most minimum possible in doing so.)