I don’t feel anything. No sore boobs, no nausea, no nothing. It’s too early for that, I know, but I’ve usually got sore boobs by now no matter what. Weird.
That’s the extent of the speculating I’m going to do here, though. I’m only a week out. One week to go, and I’m crossing my fingers for no blood.
Meanwhile, today we’ve been dealing with no water. We live in a duplex, and last night, our neighbor came by to tell us that there was a flood forming in the flower bed by her place. It seems a pine tree’s roots smashed through the major water pipe from the street to the house, and it was gushing up through the soil. So, our sweet landladies (we have dyke landladies), bless their DIY-dyke hearts, decided they would try to fix it themselves. They turned off the water to the house and started digging for the pipe. I was happy we were both showered, but I was not prepared for a whole day without water. After a couple of hours, they informed us that they had called a plumber, that they had had enough. We were pleased.
We have a history here: Our landladies are in their later fifties, and they are of the mindset that if something needs to be fixed, they can do it (or we can do it, as they have attempted to convince us before). When we were helping them fix up the other side of the duplex for a new tenant, they embraced this mindset only to install a door that wasn’t to code (which later cost over $800 to have a contractor install it), put in a deadbolt backwards, and who knows what else. I adore them, but I have also learned from them.
I love power tools. I love to fix things that I know how to fix. I love to build things that I know how to build. I love around-the-house DIY work when I know how to DI-myself. I also love to learn new DIY skills from people who know what they are doing. However, what I don’t love to do is fuck things up beyond repair to prove that I am just as good as a man with a contractor’s license. J and I have had older DIY-dyke friends who have destroyed our plumbing, broken brand new pieces of not-yet-assembled furniture, destroyed parts of our cars, and so much more, all in the name of doing it themselves. These events and those I mentioned above have taught J and I that there are professionals who are paid for things like electrical work and plumbing repairs and advanced car maintenance for a reason, and while we will certainly jump in and take care of business where we can, we find no shame in calling in a professional.
I am so glad that our landladies have learned this lesson too–at least this time–because moments ago, a scruffy-looking guy came to my door to say, “Ma’am, your water will be back on in just a moment. Make sure you don’t have any faucets on.”
And that, my friends, is why we pay them the big bucks.