One Of Those Days

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.

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