Good evening.
My friends, this blog is aptly named. It's time for another One of Those Days logs. Our story begins at approximately 7:30 p.m. on Sunday (relevant) September 18. I had gone down to my basement to do a load of laundry because, I don't know, I'm trying to be an adult or whatever. I went down about a half hour later to switch my first load to the dryer, and the ground was quite wet. There was water, I would estimate about half an inch deep, from the bottom of the stairs all the way over to the door to the backyard, where there is a drain. It was in sort of this oblong oval puddle shape, about 15 feet long and five feet wide.
I honestly didn't think much of it. The basement was also super wet last week after it rained, so I figured maybe the gutters were just backed up or something.
So I put another load of laundry in.
Why. Why do I do the things I do?
I came back down again another half an hour later, and the oblong oval had extended and deepened (That's what she said? I don't know.). I texted my landlord and told him I thought the washer had leaked through one of its little tube-y connection thingies.
Clearly, I am very handy and well versed in all things domestic.
He asked me to go back downstairs and describe the scene to him. I was describing a basic puddle and suddenly I noticed that there were these...little pieces of paper sort of floating around in the oblong oval. It looked like toilet paper.
A moment happened where this sort of slow, sinking realization came over me. The washer had not leaked. The liquid on my floor was, in fact, human excrement. And then I had a second look and noticed all the little lumps floating around. Turds. TURDS. IN MY BASEMENT.
My landlord called some emergency plumber, who said he would arrive between 8 p.m. and midnight. He arrived at 11:45 p.m. Now remember: this is a Sunday night. Oh, hah, and also, my landlord was in Oklahoma. So I had to wait up for the dude to finish.
Plumber boy trekked around in his squishy boots and made me sign things on a suspiciously stained clipboard and thrust some medieval looking chain situation into the depths of the oblong oval in a desperate attempt to frighten the clog out of the pipes. Meanwhile, I'm doing crossword puzzles trying to keep myself awake.
So 2 a.m. rolls around and the dude knocks on my door. He says he couldn't fix the clog.
Fucking phenomenal.
He says they're coming back the next day.
Fine.
I went to sleep at 2:30 a.m. and woke up at 6:30 for work today, feeling like I got hit by the very medieval chain that so cruelly failed to rid me of the shit storm in my basement. I made myself some coffee to assist in the waking up process and poured some creamer in it. The creamer was curdled. The curdled cream coffee fiasco is still sitting in a mug in my sink because, you know, I can't pour it down the drain. And then I accidentally drove past Starbucks on my way to work and had no time to turn around. Yet somehow, decaffeinated and exhausted, I made it through Monday.
After work, I stopped at my gym to take a shower (literally, just a shower) and went QT so I could get out all my bodily functions in a working toilet, and then the second plumber guy came.
TURNS OUT, the first plumber guy broke the fucking pipe in the brand new stack my landlord just had installed. And, you know, he didn't tell anyone about it. So there's just this broken vertical pipe that is now emptying directly onto the basement floor. The second plumber dude got the clog out, which would be great if the pipe with said former clog were in tact. Now, some dudes have to come and jack up the concrete basement floor, pull out the pipe, and replace it.
What. A. Shit. Storm. Literal shit storm.
HAPPY MONDAY, FOLKS.
