It was a DOOZY!
I woke up to the
Yeah. All coughing and snotting and feverish and whining.
When we finally proceeded downstairs for breakfast, I bitched and moaned about having three sick kids at home, that I'm clearly not qualified to care for three sick kids until I've had one mug of coffee and ten pieces of chocolate, and that my husband should tag-team until I've had said daily nutritional requirements. He? Just looked at me with glee as he pronounced, Well! See you later! I gotta go to work! and made like The Flash out the door.
Sometimes that whole working to put a roof over our heads and food on our table thing can be such a bitch.
Since the kids were coughing and snotting and whining while simultaneously glued to Little Bear, I decided to go downstairs to take care of the resident quadruped's litter box. And there it was. Our storage closet with an exterior door. Flooded from all the rain. And did I mention there was mud, too?
Yo! Ty-man? Work? Whatev. You've got a flooded basement. Your work is here.
I heartily laughed amid the sobs of realizing my dream of buying my four Kohler super-flush-ain't-nothing-clogging-these-puppies-up-so-eat-all-the-chili-cheese-fries-you-can-handle-and-wipe-with-an-entire-roll-of-toilet-paper-because-we've-got-you-covered toilets had just been washed away with the rain.
Many sighs, three hours in the mud, and a $2,700 quote from the local landscaping wunderkind later, we have discovered a drainage problem of biblical proportions in our back, side, and front yards. In order to keep from making like Noah, I am forgoing my dream toilets for better yard drainage.
And the high point of my day? A mammogram.
Yeah. Not to worry, all is well. But you gals know that after three whining kids and mud in your house, getting your mammary glands squished in some prehistoric torture device is the least of your troubles.
I'm so frakking glad it's Friday.