Thursday, April 28, 2005


I fucked up.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

I forgot to pay the credit card bill. In my defense, I pay it online and I had sort of forgotten that I have to go to their site and approve the amount every month. I didn't realize that I hadn't paid it, because I don't actually ever use the credit card.

But my husband does.


Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

I have become the stereotypical military wife who can't even take care of the bills while her husband is deployed.


Speaking of fuck (or fucking gorgeous in this case) I had fully intended to write the plumber story after I put the kids to bed last night. But I ended up watching Grey's Anatomy on my TiVo and then going to bed myself.

I have two weeks left before my husband comes home, and, frankly, I'm not doing so great.

This fucking sucks.

Oh, no, wait. I was supposed to be writing about my plumber. Well, after so much build-up, I'm afraid the story will be a let down.

But do you know what is really fun to deal with when your husband has been away for months and you're operating on your very last fucking nerve? Raw sewage in your kitchen sink.

I live in an old house. Because this particular house hasn't turned over many families in the last couple of decades (in fact only three, which is unheard of) it needs a lot of work.

But the good thing abut living on base is that when raw sewage makes an appearance, I just call Housing Maintenance and they have to deal with it.

The last time we had a plumber out he was the stereotypical big man with plumber's crack and a full bushy beard.

This time an angel was sent to my door.

He looked like a military boy, high and tight haircut and all. And he was definitely on the lean side. But his eyes were mesmerizing and his face was perfect.

And his ass. Ooh, lordy! It was displayed to it's best advantage encased in tight, tight jeans and sticking out of the utility closet while plumber boy was on his hands and knees.

Now, looks aside, I'm in love with this guy. Because unlike every other plumber who has paraded through here, he has actually committed to fixing all of my plumbing problems. He's not going to just tell me that the pipes are old and the little trickle of water that comes out of my shower is the best I'm going to get.

But he will tell me other things.

After sighing and swearing for an hour under our house, he crawled out to let me know what the problem was. And his little speech concluded with these words:

"But let me tell you, no more flushing feminine products!"

Now, I could have died on the spot, but I decided to argue the point with him. Because when you're going to talk about tampons, it's best to do it with the hottest plumber you can find.

By the way, and on a complete aside, I don't flush wrappers or applicators, and the rest is meant to be flushed! It says so right on the box. What the hell else am I going to do with them? Save them and make a modern art piece. Don't argue this point with me in the mood I'm in. I'll fucking kill you. I swear.

So, hot plumber boy left my tub and sink in pieces and is supposed to be back to finish up. Except I got a call this morning and the part won't be in until Monday.

I'll get to see hot plumber boy again, and maybe this time I'll talk about my cervix, or when my water broke, or that one time I had that bladder infection. Or hell, maybe I'll just bring up anal sex.

Because it couldn't be worse than talking about bloody tampons.


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