The fall dreads

Maybe you get the fall dreads?

They're the slight melancholy that arrives with the shifting of the light from sharp summer yellow to gentle, filtered gold.

They're the sudden sink the first morning you wake in confusion, thinking it must be 4 am rather than six, and you realize that the velvet dark is encroaching on both ends of your day.

They're that little spark of panic in your stomach the first morning you realize that there's a slight chill in the air.

Chill might be too strong for it. But the heavy heat of summer no longer surrounds you like a hug when you walk out the door.

The fall dreads sneak out in many ways: the too-often verge of tears; the constant simmering discontent that flares into anger too easily; the lack of patience; the longing for days past; the reaching for sugar, sugar, sugar.

People who don't get it - the godancers - just don't ever get it. No matter how much you explain.

"Why," they ask, "would fall make you nervous?"

They like to say things like: "But fall is refreshing!" and "It's not cold yet." and "You should go out for a nice hike!"

I smile (I try - it might manifest as more of a sneer) and think, oh, fuck you and your nice hikes.

Nick would be one of those people, used to be one of those people, but he's lived too closely to it. He can't feel it, so he can't empathize, but he can see it. He recognizes the shift.

The ones who get it, who know in their bones that while it starts slow, and you still have your tight grip, it's loosening. You need to readjust. You need to get a firmer hold. Get some help if you need it.

Because if you let yourself slip, the drop is a fast one. And the depths of winter are brutal.

It starts now, with the fall dreads.

One thing and another

The Hunger Games Saga

Our next door neighbor lent me both Catching Fire and Mockingjay.

His partner was reading Hunger Games on the back patio, and when I noticed of course I was all, "OH! are you totally loving it?"

Because of course if it's my new favorite thing I want to talk about it with EVERYONE. Or ANYONE. Because nobody I know in person had read them. Nobody!

And we couldn't talk about them because his partner was only halfway through the first one. Argh!

So they lent me Catching Fire and Mockingjay and I ate them up. They were delicious. Totally recommend them as suck-you-in kind of stories.

You won't finish them edified, but hell, I don't leave work edified most days.

And if you've read them, what did you think of Mockingjay?

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The Neighborhood Poo Situation

Someone pooped in the garage two doors down. I know this because they came over with a hose and asked if they could use our tap.

They meaning two of our neighbors. Not they meaning the pooper.

They said this was the first time they'd dealt with this. I'm wondering if there's suddenly a pooping bandit in the neighborhood.

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The Sewage Update

Roto Rooter came back last Friday.

The guy was there for quite a while - first he couldn't get his equipment to work, and then one thing, and then another. Finally after about an hour he got to work, and there was a lot of rotorooting to do.

We didn't get charged again, because clearly the last guy hadn't finished the job.

What he said, though, was that we have a broken pipe in front of our house. An eight-foot-underground pipe. He determined that it's either under the wall of our front garden or under the sidewalk. The camera couldn't go any further than the wall, and the guy couldn't tell us precisely.

It's either DC's issue or ours. We won't know until we dig.

What he did say, however, was that it'll cost approximately $6,200 to fix.

Then he said, "Damn. I forgot to load the DVD. Today just isn't my day."

To which Nick replied, "Forgive me if I'm not sympathetic. You're saying this to the man you just told has a $6,200 problem."

Jordan's mommy

Nick and Jordan have a kind of elaborate and constantly evolving morning routine.

After J drinks his milk, Nick hoists him up onto his shoulders and they head out for their start of the day explorations.

They say hello to the homeless guys a couple blocks away. They go to the park and play on the slide. They stop and pet the dogs they know. They walk into Starbucks because J likes how it smells. Plus there are always a lot of interesting people to see.

They used to sit in the grass and bang on the fence of the apartment building down the road, but J is past that now.

That fence is so last week.

Nick knows the names of people's dogs, but not necessarily the owners' names. It's the same for others - everyone knows Jordan's name. He strolls around on the shoulders of his enormous father. When I'm along, I'm the entourage.

We'll be walking down the street and Nick will say, "Blue!"

And this little pug will be all waggy. Blue's owner will say, "Hi, Jordan!" And Jordan will be all squealy.

So this weekend I was heading to CVS. When all of a sudden I saw a man waving wildly at me - one of the neighborhood homeless guys.

"Jordan's mommy! Hey! Jordan's mommy!"

That's me.

The limits of Nick's helpfulness

So yesterday I went to the gynecologist.

Although now I think of him as my OB, since, well, you know with the Jordan business and all. But calling him my OB makes people think I'm pregnant. Which I'm not.

Anyway.

I was hanging out on the table in that little gown thing, reading my BlackBerry, when Dr. N rapped on the door and walked in.

The first thing he said was, "Nice to see you! I love the haircut!"

I hadn't been there in months, and while I saw him 732 million times during and shortly after my pregnancy, I was surprised that he'd recognized me, much less remembered my hair.

I guess I always feel like doctors typically look at their notes and then fake the remembering.

But I quite like him and we have a good rapport, and he did pull a baby out of my uterus and shake my husband's hand. So the remembering could be genuine.

So he asked a couple questions and then left to get the nurse so she could be there for my exam.

They returned, and had me lie back and scoot forward. And so there I am, legs spread, vagina all out there for God and everyone, when he says, "So you have this cute new haircut! And what else has been going on with you?"

I don't know about you, but I have always found it hard to make small talk in a face to vagina kind of situation.

And also. With the hair, I suddenly felt noticed, if that makes sense. In a nice way. But it still made me self conscious.

Not my vagina - that was all clinical. More like, it occurred to me that maybe he thinks I'm attractive. Not in a creepy way - no tone, no look. He's totally professional.

Seriously. It's not like he was all, "Hey, why don't you put some clothing over that vagina of yours and let's go out for a drink."

It was just the noticing of the haircut. Which a ton of other people have done - it's quite a drastic haircut.

I know I'm not explaining the why very well.

And then he made me laugh saying, "OK, just a few seconds, and you'll be the proud owner of a new Pap smear."

And then I put my clothes on and we talked in his office and that was that. Totally normal.

I was telling Nick about it last night. He's typically a voice of reason. When I have situations I'm wondering about, he always gives good advice.

"Do you think it's odd? About the complimenting the hair?"

"Not at all. But you know what I wish you'd said?"

And then I thought, should I have said something? Doctors are authority figures. Maybe compliments, even innocuous ones, are inappropriate?

"What?"

"I wish you'd said, 'Oh, thank you. I was going to get a Brazilian, but then just went with a trim...Oh! You mean my head hair!'"

Helpful. Very helpful.

The revenge of the turds

I promise, if it weren’t for the sewer backup, I wouldn’t be talking about poo again this week.

I can't even bear to draw the scenario. And after this, I seriously might be done talking about it for life.

OK. Unlikely.

However.

The horrifying possibility that the DC sewer is somehow shoving sewage back towards our house, instead of it flowing the proper direction – which is OUT and AWAY and FAR FROM US AND OUR BASEMENT is currently dominating our lives.

We're operating on high alert. Code Brown.

Because when your tenant-in-the-basement emails to say, “Hey, we can’t flush the toilet. It doesn’t go down.” And then the drains out front and back overflow and you become terrified that the basement will flood, it kind of becomes the Biggest. Deal. Ever.

So Nick and the Roto Rooter man - the $550 Roto Rooter man - were up until 12:30 am on Wednesday night snaking the pipe. And we’d thought it was fixed until the drains backed up again last night, making us all hysterical. But then the water went down again.

Plus our tenants couldn't deal with another middle of the night Roto Rooting.

So currently we're all on water lockdown with no laundry no dishwasher 30 second showers minimal flushing.

Mr. Roto Rooter is going to come out tomorrow morning and stick a video camera through the drain and figure out where the problem is. Kind of like a colonoscopy.

Nick had tried snaking the drain himself early Wednesday evening, before we realized how serious it was and that we needed professional help and a much longer snake than Nick’s.

No snickering. That’s what it’s called. It’s an industry term.

On a side bar: In my Match profile I’d mentioned that the ability to use power tools impresses me no end. And let me tell you, Nick can do everything. Electricity. Plumbing. Dry wall. It was all those summers working construction with ex-convicts in NJ. I find it incredibly hot.

End side bar. Because here’s where it deviates from any possible hotness and devolves into completely disgusting.

You’re warned.

So after unsuccessfully snaking the drain and then using the Shop-Vac (and if you don’t have one, these things are amazing. They pick up water and gravel and all kinds of stuff.) to suck up all the grit and debris, Nick stripped off his gloves and clothes out back, walked in and dumped the clothing in the washing machine, and asked me to turn it on the hottest setting possible.

I said I was going to get more clothes to stick in, and he said, “Don’t add anything. Just boil them.”

He then went upstairs and scoured himself.

So.

What he didn’t tell us until late last night, when we'd had a couple of glasses of wine, was this. And I almost hate to write it. But it’s too horrifying not to share.

When he was emptying the Shop-Vac, one of the things that he dumped out was a poo. A whole poo.

After Betty and I got done doing an icky icky squeamy dance, I had to ask.

“Do you think it came from inside? Or up the pipes from outside?”

Nick said, “Jesus. I hope it was one of ours.”

And I know this sounds weird, but wouldn’t you rather have it be someone you knew?