Those of you who live in the land of no dishwashers, you can feel my pain. Those of you who have dishwashers, please realize how blessed you are. I am pretty sure that today the dish pile in my home reached its zenith point.
I don't know if I should cry or celebrate.
But instead of me being the one standing at the kitchen sink, arms deep in suds, I'm typing away and hubby is in said place without my even asking.
However, this post is not about wonderful husbands, dishwashers, or hand washing dishes.
It is about cesspools.
Specifically, our cesspool.
To put it into only a few sentences, it was discovered last week that my washing machine was full of debris and water which turned out to be everything that should flow from my upstairs toilet and into a hidden pool underneath my backyard. So, the washing machine was filled with, well, you know...
This led to a need for a septic cleanse which turned out to not be the primary problem. The kind septic guy told us we needed a plumber.
Fortunately, I have one in the family.
As I've said before, I always wanted to work with my dad. To this day, I can't tell you what on earth would make a girl want to go a'plumbin' with her father, but this recent experience has:
1. Given me much more respect for my father and what he has done and continues to do to put food on the table
2. Made me never ever want to go a'plumbin' again.
Meet Mr. Pipe. Mr. Pipe hasn't been feeling so good. Apparently, he has something backed up inside of him.
And that's the extent of my knowledge of the subject.
Except I can tell you that that isn't chocolate syrup on my dad's rag.
It's, you know, the other thing....
As I snuck behind my dad to get a better shot, my nose was instantly filled with a smell that made me want to drop my camera, run upstairs, and hide under my bed sheets clinging tightly to a Yankee candle.
Then I peered into this bucket at the questionable liquid my father was pumping and in that moment I was sure there could never ever be anything my dad could do to get me to go on a service call with him. Even money would not be worth what I was experiencing as I stood there taking tiny breaths of air and marveling at what was going on in front of me.
I wonder if he knew when I was growing up that all he had to do was clean a clogged pipe in front of me to keep me from constantly pestering him to take me to work.
And as Mr. Pipe was tirelessly cleaned out,
by this strange contraption and my father,
my brother and hubby stood as his cheerleaders on the sidelines.
The moral of this story? Respect what your daddy does to keep you sheltered and fed, and don't ever ask him if you can go to work with him, especially if he is a plumber.