You know — when you investigate the source of the smell under the trailer house, find that your sewer main has sprung a major leak, then stacked the urgency of the matter against the others around your place and found that this shitty situation is, in fact, not your No. 1 priority (or your No. 2, if you can handle a pun while you’re creeping out) — this is not a good week.

But today’s the day. I’m home from work, after I’m done here I will be tearing down fence (this sounds sooo familiar) to give John clear access to the spot to replumb and then replacing the fence (ditto the familiarity) after I shovel (I think I’ve been on the end of one of those before) the filth and contaminated dirt out.

I won’t be complaining because I will not be the one down there actually in the filth and touching those pipes. There are some things I’m totally comfortable begging out of, promising outrageous things to avoid, absolutely not taking any responsibility for unless under threat of death or dismemberment (desertion is not incentive enough). I do not do human fecal matter. But it works for John and me because he doesn’t do doggy upchuck. We’re so totally compatible, in an understandably bizarre way.

It ain’t glamorous, but it’s my life at pam[at]viewfromthenorth40.com