SBMFEB. Yeah. I said it.

Yeah, so you'd think that 99 tomato plants would be enough for one person. I mean, *I* myself thought it was plenty.

Too many even.

Maybe.

But, alas, after trading/selling/gifting 94 of those plants and planting five of my own, I went out a few days ago and bought two more.

Why? Why would I go out and buy more tomato plants if I just had 94 of my very own homegrown from seed ones to choose from?

Because two of them got The Blight.

THE SHIT BITCHING MOTHER FUCKING EARLY BLIGHT (SBMFEB).

That's right. I roll out the big swears for blight. Swearing soothes me. And I've needed soothing.

See, it all started out when my sister was in town for Mother's Day. I was all proud to show her my garden and how everything was growing all great and look at these tomato plants that I just grew from seed and yay until what in the NO!?

Early Blight. I can't believe it! My own tomato plant a god damned shit sucking BLIGHT. OK, that made no sense. But - name the movie!

Yeah. Early Blight right there on my beautiful until this very moment thriving like a muther Brandywine Sudduth.

And then I turned around to lay my cautious eyeballs on the Hillbilly only to find that the redneck had Early Blight, too.

Oh noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo was heard throughout the land. Also, crying.

Thankfully, I checked over my Better Boy and Green Giant plants and they looked fine. No concentric circles of black doom on the leaves. No weirdness. Lots of happy blossoms. Fine.

Phew.

Sort of.

I consulted with The World's Biggest Gardening Book and found that you can try to organically treat Early Blight with a copper based solution and some pruning, so I tried that.

But all I ended up with were even sicklier looking tomatoes that now were denuded of their leaves and covered in the weird blue of the copper solution.

Then the SBMFEB (see above) ate what was left of my plants even going so far as to destroy the pretty yellow blossoms all holding the promise of future bi-color tomatoes and shit.

RUDE.

So, I mourned.

I petted their little remaining blotchy leaves. I hunted about on the internets for anything that might suggest that replacing the plants with other plants may offer any hope of a successful harvest. I found nothing and chose to replace them anyway. I had a little chat with these plants and told them that I was sorry that a cootie infected their innards even after I so carefully and dutifully tended to them from their very small seed births.

I then said a lot of other things that made just as little sense.

And then I went to the nursery, bought another Brandywine plant and settled for a Mr. Stripey because they didn't have Hillbilly tomatoes because they are not as awesome as my ghetto grow op, came home, shoveled out the dying, treated the soil with copper, added some amendments and an aspirin (I won't have blossom end rot, too, after all of this nonsense) and planted my new tomatoes and also a pepper.

What a Brandywine Sudduth *should* look like.

What Hillbilly looks like when it dies and then is replaced by Mr Stripey.

A NuMex Chili variety to hang out with the Jalmundo that REFUSES TO GROW PAST TEENY SIZE.

And now I'm waiting and staring and threatening and coddling and doing anything I can think of to keep these plants healthy and growing without other cooties.

Yesterday I saw some wilting on the Green Giant, but it didn't have any of the other symptoms of Verticillium or Bacterial Wilt, so I'm chalking that up to the sudden warm weather and need for water. So I watered it this morning a bit more.

BUT NOT ON THE LEAVES. That's how you get blight. And other wilt. And many horrible things that would give me nightmares if I were to go look them up on the internet so I won't.

So, please, cross all your parts that things improve around here and no other tomatoes or plants die any horrible deaths because you know I will freak out and this blog will turn into a sad shrine to my tomatoes and no one wants that.

So think good thoughts meanwhile looking at the lavender and my grapes.

*gooooooooooood thoughtssssssssssssssss*

*healthy toooooooooooooooooooomatoessssssssss*

*also graaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaapes*

I ran up a hill

So, last week I was feeling pretty insane.

Like my brains were a big jumble of all the cray-cray that Bubba and I are dealing with right now (so much more of that to come in future posts)(don't worry, WE are fine - we're just doing crazy things) and I could barely think but for the whizzing about of Crazy in my head.

It was exhausting. I needed peace. In my head.

So, you know that I immediately made a date with The Ridge of Ultimate Sanity and Nonsense Sorting so that I could untangle the mess in my brains.

I even woke up early (unintentionally - damn you M-F 6am alarm that trains my body into inhumane sleep patterns) to sunshine instead of torrential rains and gushing downspouts, so didn't have to fight through the whole Is This Really A Good Idea train of thought that comes about during times of considering a run in torrential rains and gushing downspouts.

You know.

My drive out to the ridge was even really pleasant - I had a little protein bar action, some caffeine, some good tunes on Sirius that weren't recycled garbage from overplayed A-sides of too-popular bands and as I was taking the peek-a-boo turn on the approaching ridge, I saw that the coastal fog was still making its way back out to sea, so I knew it'd still be cool on the exposed parts of the trail.

AH PERFECT! I SHALL BE HEALED IN THE BRAINS!

Or...no.

When I crested the hill before the turn into the parking area, I saw the sight that no person seeking solitary refuge on a mountain trail wants to see.

Hundreds of shiny windshields on endless rows of cars parked all the way up from the overflow parking that you never even notice is there until they have an event and OH MY GOD ARE THOSE ORANGE TRIANGLE BANNERS.

There was a race on.

A race was happening in my Place of Sanity and Brain Fixing and, therefore, no Sanity and Brain Fixing was going to occur. For me. There.

I require solitude and zero bullhorns to recapture the many loose threads of my sanity, which as you probably imagine, does not exist even in a trail race.

Though, I will admit that, since I've been running this ridge nearly weekly since I ran the exact race a year ago, I considered *for an extremely brief moment* seeking out a same day registration or running bandit, but then realized that my crazy brains had maxed out and were taking me to a new level of Crazy which I could not abide.

Must maintain socially acceptable levels of sanity.

Must not go off the deep end.

MUST FIND SOMEWHERE ELSE TO RUN.

So, I turned around and drove back down the hill to the sight of my virgin trail run and also the place where the triangle shaped elevation chart lives on in infamy.

If Pain = Sanity, this is where they should set up a running camp for the criminally insane.

This place...well, I wasn't sure if I was ready to trade in my perfectly balanced Pain : Reward trail run on the ridge for the EXTREME PAIN : EXTREME REWARD balance of the switchbacks. Even if they are tree-covered and therefore a lot cooler than the exposed ridge.

But, I didn't have a choice in the matter according to the hundreds of bibbed racers bouncing around in preparation for the descent up the ridge, so I gave up and headed for the switchbacks.

I even renewed my annual pass at this park so that I could go back and re-punish myself some more, AND if all went to plan, have another place in which to re-stack the sanity blocks of my mind.

Thankfully, things went to plan.

A LOT.

In addition to Crazy Healing, which I got, I also kicked the crap out of this trail - compared to my runs here in the past.

I mean, compared to normal trail runners who can maintain an admirable running pace on an incline like this for sustained period, no - no, I probably did not "kick the crap out of this trail" - BUT, for me - girl who used to run ferociously up the first few hundred yards of the trail before having to resort to hiking and huffing and then doing that aggravating hike > run > hike > almost barf thing that I've been doing here for a good long time - I totally kicked the crap out of it.

I ran - at my barely surviving but still running pace - 3/4 of the way up the hill.

*Almost barfing*

3/4 of the way!

I mean, that trail goes STRAIGHT UP. Or, in this case, straight down.

COME ON!

That is good.

For me.

And then my quads were sore for two days. Because apparently charging up switchbacks for a mile and a half is hard on the old quads.

Much happier on the way down.

Though, sadly, no ocean to see out there.

 So, yeah, I've found a new place to regain my sanity and I ran up a hill.

Slow news day, I guess.

Sewing a square shouldn't be so hard.

I had a miraculous moment on Sunday - I had caught up on my To Do list and could move on to my Wish I Could To Do list.

That make sense?

Do you have one of these lists of random things you fantasize about doing (not sexy things) (OK, maybe sexy things. I don't know how you are.)?

And do you add them to your To Do list as though you're TOTALLY going to do them but then you have life and life takes up all the real time and you then you have these random things sitting at the bottom of your To Do list just pissing you off because IF ONLY I COULD CROSS THEM OFF MY LIFE WOULD BE AWESOME?

Me too.

And, in case you hadn't already realized, I'm a total list person and a total Crossing Off List Items Makes Me Feel Whole person so having shit languishing at the bottom of my To Do list just doing nothing forever makes me crabby.

Which is why I was SO extra happy yesterday when it was, like, 11am and BAM - I had time.

The garden didn't need me for anything. The dog was walked. The fridge was full. The laundry was doing whatever it does in that mystery machine. Bubba was moving music from one hardrive to another meanwhile killing universes full of aliens. I had time.

The free kind.

The Knocking Shit Off The Wish I Could To Do List kind.

So I thought I'd make some pillowcases for our office couch's HIDEOUS pillows.

Something easy that wouldn't take too much time, effort or brain power. Something that would let me quickly knock a long standing item off the bottom of my To Do list.

NOT something that should take nearly two hours, multiple adjustments, multiple swearing sessions with the seam ripper and multiple welfare checks yelled from the office as Bubba checked in on the status of my sewing scissors and their proximity to our walls/my eyes.

Alas, that was what it turned out to be.

People - I no longer know how to sew like a human being.

First of all, there was the haphazard measuring.

See, I've made pillowcases before and I've always made them too small. So I'm later found, post-sewing, sweatily wrestling a pillow into its pillowcase while screaming every threat a person could think of at the pillow and/or its case.

This time I thought that - HA HA! - I will be smart (impossible) - I will measure these pillowcases to be much larger than the pillows so that they have plenty of room to fill them out without straining the seams. I will of course not use a pattern because I'm also not using standard sized pillows, so I'll just eyefuck it.

Of course, my measuring method being haphazard as it was, I took no issue in simply setting my pillow on top of the fabric and cutting around it about 3" wider than the pillow.

"That ought to be plenty of room!" said the delusional idiot who had no business playing with the sewing machine.

Then, after cutting out these monstrous future pillowcases fit to double as a four man tent, I dug into my sewing box to find that the only zippers I had were of the 7-9" variety. This meant that they were also of the "sweatily wrestling a pillow into its pillowcase" variety which momentarily saddened me until I surveyed my options (a split back pillowcase, buttoned pillow case, sewn in place pillowcase, no pillowcase) and determined that who cares, I can use the exercise.

The fact that the only colors I had were white, forest green and teal to go with my black, white, yellow and grey fabric deterred me for nary half a second.

The fact that in 5 minutes of project time I had already compromised on two elements of my design (fit and color) should have warned me of the pain to come, but I was too drunk with I'M GOING TO CROSS SHIT OFF MY LIST OUT OF THE WAY to heed any warnings.

Onward I plowed until I'd sewn both pillow cases and stood unblinking at the bar (now serving as a standing sewing station - handy) as my pillows absolutely SWAM in their enormo pillow cases.

Also, I was sweating and my hands were raw and scratched from forcing the pillows through the tiny 7" opening of their enormo pillowcases YAY.

Which brings me to "Second of all" and the seam-ripping BO-nanza I went on just undoing the seams of one side of each pillow so that I could tuck in the (extremely superfluous) excess and take these pillowcases down a peg.

Of course, because I must have a "Third of all", I accidentally seam-ripped the wrong side of one of the pillows (though now I'm having a hard time remembering which) and so had to re-sew two edges.

HOO EFFING RAY.

Approximately one hundred years later, I had sewn two pillowcases for two awful pillows, stuffed said awful pillows into said pillowcases and thrown them on our office sofa to do...nothing. They're just sitting there being all, "This is what you get for putting us at the bottom of the list so long that you forgot how to sew."
 

Such attitude on pillows. Who knew?

At least I can cross it off the list. WITH FUCKING GLEE.

I made another fountain. For probably no reason whatsoever.

So, I don't know what's up with the muther effing bees.

I mean, don't get me wrong, I love those bitches, but I fear that something has gone awry in there. There's just not that much activity at the entrance and I've peeked into the top honey super that I (apparently stupidly) put on a few weeks ago and nada.

Seriously, I'm lucky if a single bee wanders out to see who's taking the roof off.

But, I'm paranoid about checking them too often and fucking up their shit, so I've been leaving them alone since my April 29th visit that entailed adding a honey super and trying to leave them as unmolested as possible.

NO TOUCHING

So, instead of getting all, "What's going on in here, bees? Are you going to make some honey this year and NOT DIE and stuff?" I've been doing any other bee thing that might magically divine me some honey.

Things like making another fountain.

Because the first one was such a raging success as a water bowl for the dog and not much else.

Also, it's missing now.

As are most things that can't compete with lavender or lamb's ear. AKA - everything.

But, no matter, I forged ahead with my ill-conceived plan to lure the bees into making honey by placing the much needed water source nearby.

OK - honey now.

My plan for this self-filling bee fountain is pretty simple:

Materials
1 shallow and wide ceramic pot with pre-drilled drainage hole
1 sprinkler emitter
1 wide washer that covers the drainage hole but is big enough to accommodate your emitter
A bunch of random rocks of different sizes and pointynesses
2 pavers leftover from our patio makeover
Silicone adhesive
Enough sprinkler tubing to reach from your sprinkler manifold to the beehive.

To make

1. Glue the washer to the drainage hole.
2. Glue the emitter to the washer.
3. Once dry, attach the sprinkler tubing to your sprinkler manifold like you would for any plant you might want to water and then, gently attach the business end to the sprinkler emitter (AKA The Squirty Part).
4. Set your future fountain on the two pavers.
5. Stack rocks on top of the emitter (GENTLY I SAID) so that the water doesn't go rocketing into space and as such that there are varying levels of rocks leading to the top edge so the bees don't drown.
6. Walk away and let it fill up whenever your sprinklers are already set to go off. Mine's set for 3 days a week for 15 minutes.

The hope is then that you'll see your bees flourish since they have a new source of water with which to cool and transform that nectar in their tiny bellies into honey inside the hive.

In my case, I think the reality is that there are five bees in my hive as a result of a die off, sudden swarm with the new queen and/or a daily blue jay feast and those that remain see this fountain as some sort of side show to mock with great sarcasm and joviality much like people treat the fountains in Las Vegas.

I suppose having it up on blocks like so much abandoned car isn't helping.

Let's hope that when I go out to check the bees next time that there's something better to report than, "Yep. I was right. It sucks in there."

At least it looks good from here.

The garden is so dramatic I just want to light myself on fire.

You lookin' at me?

Last year we had a very cold and very wet spring. It went on forEFFINGever. It caused problems for some plants in the garden and improved conditions for others.

It was weird.

Speaking of weird...

This year we're having a very warm and very dry spring. It's been going on forEFFINGever. It's causing problems for some plants in the garden and improving conditions for others.

It's weird.

No problems here.

The real weird part though is that when I compare this year's garden now to last year's garden at this time - it looks strangely similar.

So, perhaps, nothing weird is going on at all and just people like to get dramatic about the weather because they've all been watching too much The Weather Channel where newsworthiness is a yet-to-be-embraced concept and a gust of wind can inspire a Severe Weather Alert involving out of breath announcers crying End of Days into their clip-on mics.

Take the tomatoes for instance...

Last year

This year

Apparently lots of rain or not so lots of rain and the tomatoes just forge ahead.

And the lettuce...

Last year

This year

Sure, I have to keep the lettuce shaded under some landscape fabric pinned super sophisticated and not a all hillbilly-like to the cucumber trellis, but still - samesies with last year growth-wise.

But the cucumbers? Oh. That's another story...

Last year they were on their, what, FOURTH sowing. Lame.

This year? BOOYAHKASHAW! AKA - they are doing well.

Remember the grapes? Yeah. They are a whole new woman this year.

Last year at this time, I was all, "Oh, I hope they get up on the cable sometime in the next YEAR."

This year, the grapes are all, "We're on it, woman, and we'll thank you to stay out of our personal affairs."

So, what I've derived from this weather inconsistency OH MY GOD LA NINA EL NINO ARMAGEDDON is that it doesn't really matter, as far as the plants are concerned anyway, whether the spring is super wet and cold or super dry and warm, as long as someone's keeping an eye on them so that they don't either mold in the wet or burn in the sun.

Not like I'm trying to discredit the existence of global warming or whatever because OH WOW do I not want that kind of crazy brought down upon this blog, but I am glad that when I went to consult last year's garden blog posts I didn't see that I was way behind.

That's all I want in life, really, is for my garden to outperform last year's every single year.

Which is why I'm pretty fucking glad I planted this Green Giant Tomato because damn.

Yeah. See the Hillbilly tomato at the front of the bed? No? Right.

This guy's getting ready to eat everyone's lunch. And then BE my lunch. Or whatever.

So, yeah - let's get to outperforming already.

I have officially learned my lesson.

I am so one of those people that can not Be Told anything. I have to do it myself to understand how it works or doesn't work at all or how awesome it is or, in this case, how massively it sucks the life force from my soul.

And in this case that life force sucking thing was having a garage sale.

I fucking hate garage sales.

I don't go to them. I don't participate in them. I don't even like to be on the same block as them when they're underway. I used to re-route my Saturday long run course mid-run (which I NEVER do) to avoid the fucking things because I knew I was just going to end up re-routing myself off the sidewalk and into the street anyway to avoid psycho garage salers haggling over piles of old OshKosh B'gosh toddler overalls and shade-less table lamps and shit.

UGH. LOATHE.

But then I grew 99 tomato plants from seed and had a minor meltdown when I came to terms with the fact that my yard was only going to absorb .05% of those plants and the rest had to go *somewhere*.

But where?

Certainly my mom and nice neighbors couldn't take 94 tomato plants. And there are only, like, 5 people in my office who would want/have room for/have interest in tomato plants. And probably only, like, a few people in Blogland who live close enough and who care enough to haul over to my house for a plant they can probably get for $3 within spitting distance of their own garden, even if the plant IS free.

So yeah, that still left me with 80+ tomato plants. Plus all this other shit I decided to grow from seed during my Hey, I Know How To Grow Plants From Seed Now Watch The Hell Out bonanza of 2012.

Thus entered the garage sale idea.

See, we have this mid-spring neighborhood garage sale every year that is widely and enthusiastically attended by people who frequent garage sales. There are ads placed in papers and on Craigslist. There are balloons inflated and tied to things. There are cars parked just everyfuckingwhere. It's madness.

Usually, Bubba and I make a point of leaving town for the weekend so that we don't have to deal with it because if there's anyone on the planet who hates garage sales and all that they entail more than I do, it's Bubba.

Oh the burning hatred in his soul for garage/yard/tag sales. It is intense. It singes passersby. It ignites the dog's fur if she happens to be right there.

The man does not *do* garage sales in any form.

So you can imagine my declaration that I was "totally doing this year's neighborhood garage sale to sell off all the tomato plants taking over our kitchen! See! Don't worry!" went over really well.

I believe it was met with icy questioning stares and the counter-declaration that he would be either in Tahoe or hiding in an undisclosed location throughout the event and also WTF.

But I was so relieved to have an outlet for all these 80+ tomato plants that I would surely have just lingering about in my yard going unspoken for. Oh the tragedy of sowing and watering and tending and shuffling in and out of the house and loving and caring for 99 tomato plants only to have them go into the compost pile.

WOE! The thought was too much to bear.

But then, people came.

More than just these people.

I just didn't take pictures of everyone.

Just like when Kevin Costner did it except that I didn't have a soothsaying soul standing by to reassure me with a deep voice and a shitty attitude.

Instead, I had the internets and some enthusiastic neighbors and a handy sign up form and then, suddenly, I only had about 30 plants left.

30 plants that I *probably* could have found homes for without introducing the horror of a garage sale in our driveway.

Without the aggravation of people haggling over one damn dollar.

Without the time wasted pulling other shit out of the garage to sell because "I can't just have a few tomato plants for sale and nothing else. We might as well make use of this pain in my ass to get rid of some of this shit."

Without the extra time wasted waiting around for people to come back and pick up the giant things they bought that don't fit in their Geo Metros or whatever shit cars people drive to garage sales when they're looking for a dining room table but OH don't have any way to get it home and hey you have a truck can you bring it to my house.

Really, by the way? Do you really go shopping for furniture at garage sales driving the smallest mass produced car from the 1990s? Did you, by any chance, take physics in high school? Because them numbers just don't work out. You make no sense. Do not come to my driveway looking to buy big things that don't fit in your beer can car and then get all flustered when SUPER DOUBLE DUH they don't fit in the hatchback even with the seats down and then ask me to drive them to your house when you paid nothing for it and offer me nothing to deliver it and JUST NO.

Also, no, you may not borrow my tools to disassemble it in my driveway.

LOATHE.

Alas, that is what I did. I brought Garage Sale into our lives and OH it was EW.

The good part was that I sold off the 30 or so remaining plants within the first hour and so was left without the pain and agony of What Will Happen To My Babies.

The bad part was everything else. Haggling over the price for shit that had been languishing in my garage for years. Disassembling furniture for retards who don't know how to manipulate a wrench and drive cars ill-equipped for their shopping habits. Finding teeth in a jewelry box that a neighbor was selling while I briefly watched her post (oh wow gross).

ALL OF THESE THINGS AND MORE were the bad part.

However, once all was said and done and I had my 50 or so big dollars for AIDS LifeCycle, I took Bubba out for tacos and then hung out in my backyard AWAY FROM ALL PEOPLE, listened to the Giants game and took a fat awesome nap without any little tomato plants laying guilt trips on me about "Well where am I going to go?"

And the Giants won so YAY.

Never again with the garage sale, y'all. I'll just have to figure out another way to offload the hundreds of plants I'm sure to grow next year.

Score one for the hippies.

Where's that smoke coming from?

So, technically, the Cherokee Purple was tied with the Berkeley Tie Dye tomato for the win, but since I'm the All Powerful Oz around here (remember...) I went with the Berkeley Tie Dye because, well, obviously.

Also, if I put in both plants I might lose the dog in the overgrowth.

Right in the line of fire, there.

Because I don't prune my tomato plants like everyone else in creation. I'm actually starting to feel a little weird about the fact that I don't prune my tomatoes since everyEFFINGone does this.

Do YOU prune your tomatoes? Does it help with yields? Are you able to grow more plants and get the same yields in the same small space?

These are things I need to know, people, if I'm going to ever entertain the idea of pruning my tomatoes.

For now though, no pruning.

I expect 50 lbs of tomatoes per plant and I have The Fear of ruining those yields with flights of fancy called Pruning.

So, yeah, unless you can convince me otherwise, I Shalt Not Prune.

I SHALL, however, rip shit out of my landscaping to make room for just the one tomato because why the hell not, right?

Also, this looks better than before anyway.

So, yeah, gigantic overgrown rosemary bush OUT, hippie tomato IN and the dog takes naps - not bad for an Adopt a Crop update.

Then, maybe later this season this plant will do something productive and I'll be able to provide one of you lucky freaks with a weird little something produced from this weird little plant.

Would you like that weirdness?

Thought so.

Freaks.

Plumbers are comedians

Remember when we had our porch rebuilt and it turned out that our contractor was a comedian?

Yeah - that was good. The guy's effing awesome and he's been back since the porch redoing to do other projects in our house, though no other comedic recurrences that I can recall off hand. Which aren't really necessary when you're doing something as awesome as building us a bar.

Love that guy.

Well, we have another instance of comedian contractors except this time it's plumbing and also I don't think they were trying to be funny. Or smart. Or even - plumbers.

Basically, I think the guy who plumbed our house was...shall we say...NOT ALIVE IN THE BRAINS.

Have I ever told you that none of our plumbing was properly connected?

Like, when we moved in we realized - after three weeks, mind you - that the shower drain in our bathroom and the waste pipe under our house were not connected to one another. No gasket, no nothing. Just water going down the shower drain and some of it going IN the pipe below and some of it going AROUND the pipe below and then into our basement where EW.

That was a fun moment of discovery.

Particularly because it happened as Bubba was leaving for work and just went into our EW basement to double check the timing on the sprinkler so that we weren't spraying water all over our new neighbors only to find that YAY we were spraying water all over our new basement.

HOORAY.

Later I found that the J trap under our kitchen sink wasn't screwed in tight and that water had been dribbling out for however long and had completely warped the cabinet base.

HOORAY AGAIN.

Though, that incident prompted me to go check our bathroom sink's piping only to find that YEP SAME DEAL IN HERE, so I tightened that piping, too, and then spent a long time with my fist in the air swearing all my swears in unison.

It was a time of great shrieking and furious anger. Also, throwing of everything under the sink(s).

Well, that brings us to two weeks ago when, as I was landing in San Diego International Airport on my way home from my lovely, relaxing, BBQ-eating-until-I-was-full-for-four-days trip with Africankelli, I received a text from Bubba:

"Don't use the washer when you get home."

Um, kay. "Dare I ask why?"

"There's a leak."

SUNUVAMUTHEREFFINGBITCH!

*Woman next to me in the tiny ass airport lounge stares at me with disgust probably because of my loud swearing and fist waving*

 Anyway, I called a new plumber from the airport so that he could come inspect this leak. And inspect he did! And tell us that we had to get into the wall he did!

And so rip out the wall we did.

Oh wow. There's bead board under the drywall. Big surprise.

Which - as awful as that sounds - was not that bad nor was it something we were opposed to doing.

In fact, when he recommended opening up the wall, I believe I startled him with my enthusiastic, "Awesome! OK!" because Bubba has had that laundry room marked for destruction since we moved in six years ago.

Something about things being "ALL WRONG. WHO WOULD DO THIS?" and such.

Wrong things: conduit outside the wall, drain pipe outside the wall, outlets outside the wall - ALL THINGS OUTSIDE THE WALL.

But, whatever, dude was glad that I was not only awesomely excited to open up the wall but that we were going to do that demo work for him so he could just swoop in later and fix the leak.

Well, I'll let you guess what we found when we opened the wall this weekend.

It wasn't a fucking pot of gold, I'll tell you that.

Go on, guess...I'll wait...

...come on...you know...

YES!

Oh for reals.

That's right - the sunuvabitching pipe was not connected properly.

I'll just wait while you let that sink in.

Drain pipe from washing machine not connected to waste pipe in wall of house.

WHAT IN THE ABSOLUTE HELL, PEOPLE?

For reals, we nearly pooed when we saw that.

And the plumber (who we LOVE) actually laughed out loud. And then he fixed the PANTS off of it.

I don't understand - all pipes run in a continuous connected line? This must be new technology.

Also, let us not forget about the fantastically rewired AND GROUNDED THANK YOU VERY MUCH electrical box that Bubba installed right there next to our new WHOLE drain system and copper piping.

LET US NOT FORGET.

Also, let us soon wash clothes without flooding our driveway. Amen.