Okay, so you are probably thinking that we should have called in an expert after yesterday's unfortunate discovery of fecal matter on the lawn. No, we did not. "Maybe it's a weird aberration!" we thought. Surly Miguel, the guy who cuts lawns in the neighborhood, had come by to give his assessment.
"Plug up that hole!" said Surly Miguel. Maybe a well-placed flowerpot atop the site of the extrusion would serve to prettify the area and prevent further blowouts! Anyway, we mixed a drink and ignored it, in the manner of the ostrich. Maybe the problem would just go away and prevent us from spending multibajillions of dollars to fix it.
So this morning I returned from the gym, where I was attempting to cut off further panic attacks at their source. I was feeling better, quite better! "I might turn the corner on this thing," I thought. Then I came up the driveway and saw It. The hole had belched forth a wide swath of effluvium, vastly trumping yesterday's horrors. The turds were not cute, nor were they small. I began to hyperventilate.
Several neighborhood boys were playing soccer on our lawn, as is the accepted way on our street where no private property is sacred. They seemed innocent and playful.
"Dudes!" I yelled. "Did you not see the big pile of poop?"
One of the boys said: "Yeah, we saw that. Pretty gross. I think the soccer ball went through it."
"Maybe, just maybe," I said, while trying to suck down some air, "you should take your game elsewhere."
"Yah, disgusting!" yelled the boys.
"I'm going to have a panic attack," I said to the boys, who are all about 12 years old. "Help! Help! What should I do with this?"
One of the boys thought most carefully, and then said: "I would get a shovel and scoop it all up and put it in a bag."
"Thank you," I said, most gratefully. Donning rubber gloves, I followed his instructions to the letter. Before I did so, however, I went next door to the neighbor to see if he knew a respectable type of Roto-Rooter fellow.
"I don't know who to call!" he said, clearly horrified. "But maybe you could call the police?"
I found the yellow pages, which I have never used for any reason. Right on the back was a big ad for the Drain Doctor, which advertised 24/7 emergency service. "I have raw sewage on my lawn," I told the Drain Doctor. "I think this qualifies as an emergency?"
While waiting for the Drain Doctor, my middle son ran to me in a fright. "Mommy, there's a big dead bird under the swing!"
I meant to give the bird a decent burial, but he got tossed into the Poo-Sack with everything else.
And then one of the neighborhood boys came back. "Hey, I forgot to tell you that there's a poop in the middle of the lawn, too." It had been stepped on by the soccer players and smeared through the grass.
"How did that get there?!"
"Must of gotten tossed through the air through that pipe. I'll bet it flew like a bird!"
I went and found the poop, which was clearly of animal origin. This poop was the kicker, for it was so foul that I started dry-heaving and stumbling over the grass. I came within a hairsbreadth of vomiting. Father's day was not going well! I had meant to give my husband a Father's day gift, but since he was off playing sport, his absence during this event was indeed the best gift I could have given him.
Various other neighbors came by. One of them poked a stick down into the hole, while tromping through the muck and doody and stompling at it with his shoes. My two-year-old ran up with a trowel, hoping to help, and then saw the puddle of doom which had been produced when we "tested" the toilet by flushing it. "Puddle!" he yelled, and jumped into it with both feet.
Then the Drain Doctor guy came. He saved our lives and charged us a good price. The day ended better than it had begun. Except for the dead bird--it's still dead.