Do you ever wake up in the morning and just *know* it’s going to be a bad day before you get out of bed? I actually never do, I’m optimistic AF. But that all changed within 5 minutes of stumbling toward the coffee machine in the kitchen, because on my way past the bathroom the toilet said good morning to me.

The last time the toilet started to sing the song of its people, things went to a very bad place, very quickly. I had nightmares for weeks. So you’d think when that wish-it-wasn’t-familiar glub glub noise started up this morning, I would have called the emergency pumper service right away. But no – optimist, remember?

I rolled the dice and got away with my morning business, then started the day’s writing. I got so immersed that it only registered in the back of my mind that Gene had zombie shuffled past the office into the bathroom, shut the door, and had been in there for a good ten minutes. In retrospect, I believe he would have appreciated a little forewarning of what was 99% likely to happen next. Sure enough, a panicked, screeched “Noooooooooooo” emerged from the bathroom, accompanied by frantic plunging noises. Then Gene told me I wasn’t allowed to yell that loudly in an enclosed space, particularly when he was standing right next to me, and that busting in on him after the fact was too little, too late. Then he started eyeing the rising water level and advised me to back up because I wasn’t wearing shoes.

It was *so close*. Less than inch before flood waters commenced.

So then we spent way too long in the pouring rain digging test holes to figure out where the septic tank was, with me trying to explain that despite literally watching the pumper guy dig it up last time, my brain is too full of dating advice to remember minutiae like where the access hatch is buried.

Now we’re just waiting for the “local” service to return my call. In the meantime, Gene proudly showed off his Plan B, which he had put together in the pole barn (that should have been my first warning – it wasn’t in the house):

I let him know that while I appreciated his artistry from an aesthetic standpoint, he should still file it under “Not Gonna Happen AKA Oh Hell No”. My butt is allergic to buckets, and I’ll happily abstain from solid food until I hear the HoneyBucket truck in the driveway.