I'm joking of course. Sean's plane wasn't even off the ground before our lives began to spiral out of control. In a way, both of the disasters that occurred were related to our plumbing.
Sean was scheduled to leave for the airport at 2:30 pm, so naturally the main plumbing line to our house became plugged at exactly two o'clock. For those of you without a background in plumbing, something I learned this weekend is that, when someone says "the main line for the house" that's code for "even the toilets." I made this discovery when I went downstairs to switch over a load of cloth diapers, and I noticed a large and foul smelling lake had formed on our basement floor. I called Sean, who instantly said "it sounds like it's the main," and began the process of selecting a plumber that would work with our home warranty company, on a Friday evening, without price gouging us. Meanwhile, I began the equally important task of selecting hilarious names for our newly formed basement estuary. Sean settled on "Mr. Rooter." I settled on "Lake Shiticaca."
Did you know that plumbers will come to your house at 7:00 pm on a Friday? I didn't either, but Mike from Mr. Rooter-- wherever you are-- I want you to know that, without you, I would have had to sail across lake Shiticaca all weekend just to do my laundry. I think you are as brave and heroic as any of our nation's Naval Officers, and if I ever see you again, I will make you a plate of cookies. Thank you for the service you provided to myself, my daughter, and my mother-in-law who was visiting for the weekend. Without you, everything would have turned out to be a complete disaster, and even though it did anyways, that wasn't your fault.
Actually it was Millie's fault. Or mine, or my boobs-- or something like that, because the second disaster that happened this weekend was that I developed Mastitis. This is a condition that occurs in nursing mothers when their milk ducts become blocked. The word Mastitis comes from the root Mast or Mastadon, because it feels like a Mastadon is trampling on your titty. At one point this weekend, the thermometer read 103.3-- which isn't a scary number when applied to--for instance--radio stations, but is pretty dangerous when applied to fevers. This is even scarier when the person who has this fever is responsible for keeping a tiny human alive. My symptoms involved uncontrollable shivering, fatigue, and headache (in addition to the mastodon trampled ta-tas described above.)
For you breastfeeding moms out there, if you are shivering uncontrollably and you think it's because your husband is on a fishing trip and is not in bed cuddling with you, and that's why you are so cold, and in unrelated news one of your titties is now the size of a high altitude weather ballon, and it's really starting to hurt, but it's probably no big deal, and the worst that can happen is that your husband will catch a Spanish Mackerel bigger than yours, then this is for you: SLAP. Wake up idiot. You have Mastitis and are running a dangerous fever! Get your sorry ass out of bed and take your temperature! Then, go to the doctor and hope to god that your mother-in-law is in town to hold your screaming baby in the waiting room.
Now that Tuesday has arrived I can look back on the events of our first weekend without Sean and laugh at them, because I survived Lake Shiticaca and the Mastodon Titties. I feel totally fine, and there is not a single turd floating around my basement floor. It's all thanks to two people. I wish there were a radio station called "103.3, The Fever," so I could express my gratitude by calling in song dedications to them. For Mike at Mr. Rooter, the song I would dedicate would be "That Smell," by Lynyrd Skynyrd, and for my Mother-in-Law Deb, I would dedicate "Jungle Fever," or perhaps "Cry Baby Cry" by the Beatles.