It was not bird poo.
It was not dog poo.
Unfortunately, most of it was probably my poo. As well as some from a few recent visitors.
Thank you, friends!
Right now you should be thinking what the coconuts was I doing Saturday night, and where can you get some.
But alas, this was not a result of a fantastical night on the town flowing with wine and honey liqueur. This was a natural disaster.
How on earth is a poo-smeared patio a natural disaster? Is there some horrible caca-slinging storm system developing over water-treatment plants and traveling across the nation to punish homeowners for eating extra drippy McRibs and giant baskets of delicious boneless buffalo wings dipped in the spiciest mango habanero sauce?
This is the evil doing of plumbing. This sad state of affairs is a natural disaster because, of course, toilet use is a natural human occurrence; however, a back-flow of the pipes and plumbing intended to hide evidence of said toilet use is, in my humble opinion, a most unfortunate and morbidly stinky disaster.
I guess I can consider myself lucky that all the back-flow happened outdoors and not inside my bathroom. The plumbing gods must have known that even the strongest incense sticks and patchouli sprays from Whole Foods would fail to mask the stench.
The scrubbing bubbles would probably throw up and die of convulsions before serving any purpose in a poo-bathroom cleaning quest.
Luckily, the guy who owned the house before me decided he wanted a toilet in his workshop-shed-hut thing he built in the backyard, which had to be removed to sell the house to me.
While tearing the building down, the contractors were kind enough to leave the drainage pipes open to the elements. Probably to provide me with some options in case I had an overwhelming need for a potty visit and didn't feel like walking all the way to my bathroom.
I could just pretend like I was hiking in the Andes mountains again and aim for the tiny opening in the ground.
Thanks, contractors!
As I stood there, hose in hand, vigorously spraying water to wash away all the yuck, I wondered if this was listed as one of the warnings on any of the first-time-homebuyer sites I read while doing my research.
It should have been made pretty visible. I would list it as one of the top things to consider before making a purchase.
After the third or fourth time of spraying my dogs with the hose to scare them away from what they thought was the most glorious and tastiest puddle of deliciousness in the world, I decided something must be done.
I called the one person who had more experience dealing with plumbing disasters than anyone I knew: my dad.
Since I can remember, my dad has done all the plumbing in the houses we lived in. He once enlisted his children (that includes me) to help dig up the drain field around our septic tank in the back yard.
Wherever there was a leaky faucet, a bubbling toilet or a pipe to dig up, my dad was always there to fix it. He's the thriftiest guy I know.
When he and my mom graciously came over to console me and attempt to use his plumbing super powers, I was grateful and relieved that my problem would soon be solved.
My dad stood over the drainpipe with one hand on his hip and one on his chin. Thinking.
He shoved a pipe snake in the pipe.
It didn't work. He thought some more.
He shoved the pipe snake in the pipe again.
......
"Well, that's a problem alright," he said.
My mom gave me a sad look. "Our family has always had a curse with plumbing," she chimed in. "It follows us wherever we go. You must have caught it."
Great. Wonderful.
I'm cursed. I have a poo hex on my head. What kind of family has a poo curse?
Mine. That's what kind.
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