"Does This Smell Remind You Of The South Of France...In The Middle Ages?"
It turns out those "flushable" wipes that are advertised for potty training aren't flushable. All right, you can
flush them, if
you don't mind calling your plumber for an emergency visit to your flooded basement. We'll be sending the bill to the Pampers corporate headquarters.
Dan and I have spent the past several days decontaminating the basement. There are lots of objects I won't miss--the odd bits of furniture abandoned by the previous owners of the house, the mountain of cardboard we hadn't gotten around to bundling for recycling pick-up--but I am a little melancholy about my old prom dress. Not that I'd looked at it in well over a decade, nor was I ever likely to fit into it again. I had imagined I would eventually reach some Buddhist-enlightenment-like approach to de-cluttering, and I'd give it to one of those organizations that gets prom dresses to girls who couldn't otherwise afford them. Putting it on the curb is definitely not what I had in mind.
Thinking about the several days of lost writing time is worse, though. Writing time is one thing I actually had a regular habit of using.
Meanwhile, we take turns entertaining our toddler to free each other up for cleaning. On the first day of the flood clean-up, Gareth really enjoyed our Bowdlerized version of that Monty Python bit about how you can tell who the king is because he's the only one not covered in poop, and we've had many requests for repeat performances. Come September, his preschool teacher will probably not thank us for this.