We all have them.
The plumber who spent three hours here fixing a string of fiddly malfunctions — drippy taps, self-flushing commodes — opened the cellar door (which can stay closed the whole winter) and stepped out into a well-aged and geologically layered heap of raccoon poop. Apparently the local Rocky has decided my walkout stairwell is the place to amble in and take a dump.
We’re under a tornado watch, which means the barometer has plummeted and every place I’ve ever wrenched or strained (there’s a lot of them) is singing. I feel like I’ve done a full tour of a museum the size of Delaware.
And every other guy I crossed paths with in the gym today looked like one of the Tsarnaev brothers.
All you can do is wait for the thunderstorm.