Ya Know . . . .

On occasion, my dear husband has been a bit . . . well, let's just say 'bellicose' . . . about the seemingly never ending parade of small disasters that seem to befall a small homestead like ours. And, those things never bothered me like they did him. After all, that's just part of living this sort of lifestyle, right?

Yeah, well . . . .

Tonight while Tom and I were upstairs relaxing after a junky pizza dinner and watching Marilyn Monroe in 'Some Like It Hot', the septic tank was backing up into the house.

Literally bubbling and burbling up the drain in the bathroom like a happy little brook.

It was running under the bathroom wall and flooding the kitchen pantry floor . . . which was stacked with absorbent cardboard container upon container of empty bottles I was saving to make homemade pop with.

It was seeping underneath the wall between the pantry and downstairs bath into the dining room.

That septic tank has not worked properly since we moved in. This I know. At first, we thought it was because it had sat basically empty for a year or two before use.

Then we thought we were introducing too much water which was diluting the "good" bacteria. So, I stopped taking in our massage therapist's washing.

Since I, in particular, use the potty a LOT, I began subscribing to the "if it's yellow, let it mellow" theory. (Yuck.)

But, obviously, none of our above-listed possible errors were the problem.

Our system was put in by a dear friend. Someone whom I would trust with my LIFE. We would hire no one else to do our excavating, our heavy machinery contracting. Our septic system.

So, where have things gone wrong?

Suddenly, I am exhausted. I'm going to bed.

I love this life, but, ya know . . . there are times!