Keely's House Continues To Fall Apart.

The pit...of despair...

Apparently I keyed into something cosmic on Thursday. Either that, or I taunted fate something awful with my tales o' bodily fluids.

Because the very next day our sewer pipe collapsed.

Thankfully, we [now] have a very good plumber. (For those of you playing along at home, yes we have collected plumbers like little kids collect...whatever the heck it is that kids collect these days. Jacks? Worry dolls? I have no idea.) The plumbers are called The Scottish Plumber (actual tagline: "The pipes, the pipes are calling." Peej may not think that's the reason we went with them, but he'd be wrong.)

They came immediately on Thursday morning and did a swell job of instantaneously pointing out [at least] four places where our home is broken. Like under the laundry room. The Harry Potter storage closet. The playroom wall. The entirety of the bathroom. Because not only did the sewer line give out, but in doing so, it helpfully pointed out other areas that were less than "airtight."

In fact, when the plumbers jackhammered up all of the ceramic tile and concrete in the bathroom, they discovered an actual cesspool beneath the toilet. There was evidence of animal activity that shall not be mentioned ever again. And there was room for at least four bodies. You know how there's supposed to be pipes and concrete and very little to no space at all between things under any given house? There was NOTHING but space. It was like opening a door into a swirling vortex. Like in Ghostbusters. But way stankier.

The jackhammering also had the effect of covering every inch of our home with multiple layers of dirt and dust. There was a moment where I felt like an actual resident of Pompeii. And by Friday night I had mopped every square inch of [non-destroyed] space TWICE. And Nora still slipped on a dusty stair.

The lower level of our home is, well, to quote a James Taylor song: "Tore up, and tore up good." This is the floor that, besides the bathroom, laundry, and playroom, houses the guest room/P.J.'s office, and that random room (which had previously been hosting Mold-O-Rama 2011- and is now so fresh and so clean clean with new drywall and paint...just in time to potentially get ripped up again).

We have no TV.

There is limited access to Nora and Zuzu's toys, some of which I grabbed and stacked in the living room. And, if you'll recall, the living room is perhaps the only room in the house where we don't have bibs and diapers and miniature cars strewn around. (Except for this week!)

And did I mention that we've got people coming for a long weekend on Thursday? We've got people coming for a long weekend on Thursday! Maybe I'll set up a tent in the backyard. (For myself.)

Over the weekend, we were allowed to run hot water but had no access to the laundry (oh, darn), but the steam from the hot water made the smells more smelly. And since the only thing separating us from raw sewage were gaping holes that had been covered in plywood, they weren't awfully effective at containing THE WORST SMELL THAT HAS EVER BEEN IN MY NOSE, EVER.

And this afternoon I get to meet with an insurance adjuster (who has already attempted to dissuade us from filing a claim on the grounds that, whether or not we get a payout, our rates will definitely go up). Hopefully she will see that the work being done is not "cosmetic," nor is it something I've done to the house.

I'm pretty sure that, were I a swarm of frothing demons being chased by locusts, I would not have been able to inflict this kind of damage to my own abode.

I bet it would smell better, though.

Best Birth Control On The Market.

Great story, Mom.

Let me set the stage for you.

Nora, having recently begun the whole All Underwear, All The Time show, was having a hit or miss kinda morning. That said, by 9am I had already sanitized everything on which a little bum could fit. (Because, the sad reality is this: Potty training a two year-old is awfully akin to chasing an incontinent velociraptor.)

Susannah, for her part, had been constipated for two days. And was covered with mashed avocado after a messy "lunch." Simply coated in the stuff. Between that and her sister's combo of soaked pants and a runny nose, I figured that both of them could use a nice, relaxing, cleansing bath.

Except.

Once in the bath, Nora freaked out from [her newly acquired and very real fear of] water in her eye. She cried. A lot. This caused two things to happen: Nora's boogs started to stream down her face AND Susannah was frightened into her own set of tears.

Zuzu, also in the bath, cried so hard that she pooped everywhere. EVERYWHERE.

And I had one of those moments where I had to decide whom to save first. The child whose feces these weren't, or the one who was not yet sick? The toddler with a so-so immune system or the infant with none whatsoever? The child who had yet to pee on me that morning, or the one who had just given me her favorite sticker heart because I was the best Mom ever?

I chose Susannah, figuring that the baby would be quicker. I CHOSE INCORRECTLY. Because.

While attempting to dry and/or clean the baby on the bathroom floor, Nora decided [rightfully so] that the water swirling down the drain was gross. So she helped me out by flinging it all over the bathroom to get it out of the tub. That's right, handfuls of poop, flying everywhere.

Both girls went back into the tub for a makeshift shower while in my arms. And I still could not guarantee that anyone in that room was actually clean.

As we exited the bathroom, one of the cats puked three times in front of me: a hairball, some followup hairball, and a third puddle just for fun.

And playing on the radio that whole time? Hall and Oates' timeless classic, You Make My Dreams Come True. (Forget that- I clearly make my own dreams come true.)

Later on, when both girls had finally settled into naptime and I was able to super clean the bathroom for the third time that morning, I called P.J. to regale him with my epic o' bodily fluids. I expected sympathy, hoped for empathy. But his response?


CONCERN FOR THE CAT.

[Forced] Togetherness.

Our Double Stroller- Making Moments Like This Possible Since 2012.

Indoor Air Is Highly Overrated.

"This house is made of Scotch tape and failed dreams."
"I know."

This coming July, we'll have lived in this house for three years. Three years. During that time, we've ripped off a roof, dragged in appliances, patched and painted and edged and secured, replaced windows (and replaced windows and replaced windows), had the electrical system rewired, wiped out mold (and redid drywall and painted and edged and secured), made it clear that rats are NOT WELCOME, and finished a host of other things that I've most likely blocked out due to post traumatic stress.

We also had a kid. And then another kid.

For the past few months, Peej and I have been deciding how to next fix this house with the [frighteningly small] amount of money we've socked away into our Good Lord, This House fund. Excitingly enough, we realized that we could maybe afford the down payments on something cosmetic or purely awesome. Like air conditioning for the whole house.

This impending luxury may have been etched into P.J.'s mind since the previous summer when, hugely pregnant with Susannah, he (repeatedly) found me hunched over our window unit and weeping fat, hot, Ugly Tears.

We had multiple contractors come out and quote the job, but we went with the company that promised exactly the results that we wanted, NO PROBLEM. I had no time for the menfolk who suggested that perhaps our Wikki Stix abode wouldn't be able to support the type of system we wanted. Wall-mounted units? Do we look like a Motel 6? (Don't answer that.)

So they came on Thursday with a crew of four and proceeded to open up the completely access-free crawlspace above the third floor bedrooms. ("To take a look-see!") Turns out, there was no room for the necessary vents to supply air down to Zuzu's room and that whole floor. There was barely room for the haphazard piping and shenanigans going on up there in the first place. So, the upstairs bedrooms could get a/c, but no dice for poor Baby Girl. Which, annoyingly enough, had been the entire impetus for this project (my Ugly Tears notwithstanding)- actual air in the infant's bedroom. As it stands, Susannah's window opens out into the shared walkway between our home and the neighbor's 5-flat, which serves as a conduit for cheap cigarillo smoke and a melange of vomit and stale urine. (All three are produced by the same neighbor, isn't that magical?) Thusly, GIRL NEEDS AIR. (Also, aren't you dying to come stay at our house, now?)

It took until 10pm that night for the crew to secure some semblance of forced air through our new furnace- did I mention that we had to buy a new furnace?- at which point the foreman announced that he kinda hated our house. "I mean, you guys are cool, but...if I never see this house again, it'll be too soon." Mazel tov! Can I offer you some more warm bottled water?

And I'm currently awaiting quotes/grand apologetic gestures of price-slashing to finish the job. P.J. and I had the [genius] idea to cut a fireman's pole area into the master bedroom, thus getting the air into the baby's room, AND facilitating easier early morning Suzy-gettin'.

But apparently that's not a real thing.

Whatever, I've never let that stop me in the past. After all, we've lived in this make-believe house for three years, haven't we?