Poop on floors, and other anxiety creating scenarios.

This morning, as I was lying in bed, I heard The Children arguing downstairs.

The Girl:  STOP TOUCHING MY GUINEA PIG!!!

The Boy: I'm not. I'm touching MY guinea pig. Last night Mom gave her to me, because Mom loves me more than she loves you.

TG: LIAR! She does NOT, and Pumpkin is MINE! Mimi is YOURS!

TB: Not anymore. Now stupid Mimi is your pet because she pees on me. We traded pets, see?

TG: I'M TELLING MOM!!!!

At that statement, I felt my gut spasmodically tighten and I did A Not Very Adult Thing. I hid under my blankets. Because? When I get called into an argument, that invariably means I'm expected to Do Something about it. And hello? I didn't feel like Doing Something. I felt like lying in my bed and recalling the awesome dream I had last night involving Johnny Depp, living in a French Chateau, and having a Nanny to deal with The Children. Preferably someone super funny and wise, like Fran Drescher, because that would be AWESOME.

TB: Haha, tell her. I don't care. PEANUT BUTTER MONKEY BUTTS! (The Boy often shouts out random phrases). We are used to it, whereas his PE teacher is not used to it. Yet.

I waited for The Girl to run upstairs to tell me that her younger brother was touching things, stealing all the air and talking about butts, but since they were both unmedicated their attention was quickly drawn to the squirrel that has taken to foraging for nuts in our front yard.

TG: Squee!!! Look, a squirrel!!!

TB: Cool! Look at its butt!! Quick, get Mom's camera so I can take a picture of its butt. HURRY!!!

Crisis averted.
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Later-

I took a load of laundry downstairs because I had Big Plans today. Big. Plans. They involved making The Girl finish the dishes while I did ALL THE LAUNDRY. I was then prepared to hang it up instead of throwing it into the "clean pile" on my bedroom floor. Because I'm tired of rooting through 9 laundry baskets of clean clothes to find one pair of underwear and The Boy's Favorite Shirt. It has a dinosaur on it. His shirt, not my underwear. But? I would love dinosaur underwear, fyi.

When I walked into the laundry room, my eye was immediately drawn to the drain. Because it was backed up. And because POOP WATER was all over the floor of the laundry room. And somehow it flooded the family room, so I had stepped in Poop Water without knowing it.

Poop should only be in toilets. When poop is on my floors I become highly anxious. Because of e-coli and various other diseases and germs that my children and I are exposed to. Not to say that poop on my floors is a common occurence. Because it's not.

So, I did what I usually do when faced with situations that cause me stress/anxiety. I froze. On the poopy carpet. Because that way, the germs wouldn't get spread to other areas of my home. As my bare feet soaked up all manner of vile contaminants, I soon realized this was not the course of action I truly wanted to follow. I was forced to retreat upstairs, thereby contaminating my kitchen and livingroom floors with Germs.

I called three places and one guy came over. I took him downstairs and showed him the drain, which was covered with fecal matter. Then HE LIFTED UP THE DRAIN WITH HIS BARE HANDS!!!!

EEEEWWWWWW!!!!!!

I immediately ran upstairs and took a Xanax.

When I got back downstairs, the guy said it would be a two-person job, and he needed to call his work to see if anyone else was available.

I did not offer to let him use my phone.

Long story short, after this person walked all over my home and opened AT LEAST three doors, thereby contaminating them, he left.

I found another company that can be here today and will charge me considerably less than the first company.

But, in the meantime, the first guy came back, with a friend. After they touched a bunch of stuff and told me how much it was going to cost me for them to get the job done, I told them I had someone else that was going to do the job. People who would hopefully be attired in hazmat suits when they arrived.

But, I think I may have infected The Children with my germophobia, because now The Boy is walking around with his feet encased in gallon sized ziplock baggies, and the girl has fashioned a pair of shoes out of two garbage bag boxes.
No poop germs on me!

So the other guys got here and in 5 minutes they'd figured out that they needed to snake the line going through the toilet that's in the laundry room.

Yes, we have a toilet in our laundry room. It's just there, behind a wall, just in case we suddenly need to pee while doing laundry. Here it is:
While I appreciate the creative use of space, um, no.


There's also a sink in the laundry room, and a showerhead attached to the wall. There's no shower curtain, or actual shower. Just a showerhead, sticking out of the wall. In case you're thinking about something like this:
Oooh. Fancy.

Um, yeah. No. I'm talking about this:
I'm pretty sure I would come out even more gross than before the shower.

And that's why the sellers were able to list the house as a two and a half bathroom house.