Presenting The Two-Minute Freakout
Jesse is thoroughly upset and pissed right now.
The plumber came over and since there is no valve installed for cleaning out the pipe (which is most likely blocked), we would have to pay about two hundred bucks to have one installed. Until then, the insurance company is denying our claim, and the fucking backyard smells like crap and piss. There is shredded bits of toilet paper all over the rear quarter of the deck, and the drain itself is so fucking foul I can't even stand to look at it.
Marcus the backup kitty keeps meowing, wanting to come in the office where I have locked myself to type this, and I keep yelling at him to shut up.
I've placed a phone call with the previous owenr of the house to see what she did when this sort of thing happened (because it's most likely not the first time) and surprise of surprises, she hasn't called back yet.
My stomach hurts like hell and I want to call in sick to work but if this costs even remotely close to what I fearfully suspect it will, I can't afford to call in sick because I'll be taking a loss on my daily wage that right now we really can't afford even without this repair bill looming like a rabid bitch of the Apocalypse.
There is a ton of dirty dishes piled up in the sink that we can't wash.
There is a grip of dirty clothes as well, ditto.
My mother is coming to town tomorrow, which I need about as much as a colonscopy with a barbed wire probe and a saltwater enema afterward.
I almost just cried while typing this. I hate not having any self-control. I hate it.
Goddamn... I fucking hate the holidays. I hate December and my stupid upcoming birthday.
Stick a fork in me. I'm done for the day.
Out.
UPDATE: All right, I feel a lot calmer now. As it turns out, one of the major issues that I was freaking out about has turned out to be nothing much. The plumber was very puzzled about the fact that the sewage leak (and boy do I hate typing that) was coming into the back yard away from the house when, in fact, it should have been heading toward the street, meaning something was really fucked up. This could possibly mean that not only was the line fucked up--obviously--it could also mean that the land itself was now saturated with glop, making the place a horrorshow when it came time to do any yard work in the back.
My neighbor Al pooh-poohed (sorry, couldn't resist) that notion. "Actually," Al said, "the pipes run the other way; they go through your neighbor's back yard and out into the street in front of his house. I know this because we replaced our plumbing a couple years ago, and that's exactly where ours go, not to mention everyone else's."
Whew, feeling calmer. I felt even better about it when the two hundred dollar question of the drainage valve was brought into play. I thought originally it didn't exist but, according to Al, it is most likely buried under about six inches of soil right next to the main water valve. "Because you can't build a house's plumbing without something like that," he said. "If you do a little digging, it'll turn up. That's where ours was. Sure, you won't see it on a visual search, but it's there."
Plus, there is also the fact that our roommate's father is a certified union plumber who has specifically ordered his daughter not to allow us to do any more major repairs without calling him first. "Beer is a good form of payment," he was reported to say.
Thank you so much to everyone who responded; I apologize for freaking out, as I find losing one's self-control (especially in such a public way) to be distasteful. Freak-out posts are not kosher in my book. So hopefully, this will be fixed very soon and in the meantime, Baldman is being a saint by letting me crash his shower.
Still not happy about mom's impending visit, though... but that's something for next time.
The plumber came over and since there is no valve installed for cleaning out the pipe (which is most likely blocked), we would have to pay about two hundred bucks to have one installed. Until then, the insurance company is denying our claim, and the fucking backyard smells like crap and piss. There is shredded bits of toilet paper all over the rear quarter of the deck, and the drain itself is so fucking foul I can't even stand to look at it.
Marcus the backup kitty keeps meowing, wanting to come in the office where I have locked myself to type this, and I keep yelling at him to shut up.
I've placed a phone call with the previous owenr of the house to see what she did when this sort of thing happened (because it's most likely not the first time) and surprise of surprises, she hasn't called back yet.
My stomach hurts like hell and I want to call in sick to work but if this costs even remotely close to what I fearfully suspect it will, I can't afford to call in sick because I'll be taking a loss on my daily wage that right now we really can't afford even without this repair bill looming like a rabid bitch of the Apocalypse.
There is a ton of dirty dishes piled up in the sink that we can't wash.
There is a grip of dirty clothes as well, ditto.
My mother is coming to town tomorrow, which I need about as much as a colonscopy with a barbed wire probe and a saltwater enema afterward.
I almost just cried while typing this. I hate not having any self-control. I hate it.
Goddamn... I fucking hate the holidays. I hate December and my stupid upcoming birthday.
Stick a fork in me. I'm done for the day.
Out.
UPDATE: All right, I feel a lot calmer now. As it turns out, one of the major issues that I was freaking out about has turned out to be nothing much. The plumber was very puzzled about the fact that the sewage leak (and boy do I hate typing that) was coming into the back yard away from the house when, in fact, it should have been heading toward the street, meaning something was really fucked up. This could possibly mean that not only was the line fucked up--obviously--it could also mean that the land itself was now saturated with glop, making the place a horrorshow when it came time to do any yard work in the back.
My neighbor Al pooh-poohed (sorry, couldn't resist) that notion. "Actually," Al said, "the pipes run the other way; they go through your neighbor's back yard and out into the street in front of his house. I know this because we replaced our plumbing a couple years ago, and that's exactly where ours go, not to mention everyone else's."
Whew, feeling calmer. I felt even better about it when the two hundred dollar question of the drainage valve was brought into play. I thought originally it didn't exist but, according to Al, it is most likely buried under about six inches of soil right next to the main water valve. "Because you can't build a house's plumbing without something like that," he said. "If you do a little digging, it'll turn up. That's where ours was. Sure, you won't see it on a visual search, but it's there."
Plus, there is also the fact that our roommate's father is a certified union plumber who has specifically ordered his daughter not to allow us to do any more major repairs without calling him first. "Beer is a good form of payment," he was reported to say.
Thank you so much to everyone who responded; I apologize for freaking out, as I find losing one's self-control (especially in such a public way) to be distasteful. Freak-out posts are not kosher in my book. So hopefully, this will be fixed very soon and in the meantime, Baldman is being a saint by letting me crash his shower.
Still not happy about mom's impending visit, though... but that's something for next time.