URGENT!

What do they say? When it rains, it pours?

Pours out the ass?

I suppose you could say I have a lot going on right now. Earlier, I was squirting diarrhea into the toilet, but thanks to the miracles technology has bestowed upon us, that didn't stop me from still being that work-from-home diva, muted on the call, of course, hearing all about the end of fiscal year.

Let's have a meeting about how busy we are. Then let's schedule a follow-up meeting about that meeting.

And while I could mute myself for the call, I couldn't mute my ass. Or the stench. Or the rest of the chaos unfolding around me.

Like the Guatemalan man who had cut a two-foot-by-two-foot square in the ceiling of my guest room.

See, impeccable timing.

It rained hard last night, and there was water on the guest room bed: A leak.

Which is great because, you know, our house is on the market, and we were less than twenty-four hours away from a showing.

So we panicked.

We ran around.

We called numbers.

I say we, but I really just mean my husband.

Hence, the Guatemalan men in my attic, cutting holes in my ceiling and probably wondering what the fuck is wrong with the little white girl who disappears into the bathroom every thirty minutes while someone on speakerphone keeps shouting, "END OF FISCAL YEAR."

As if, between the drywall and insulation, they also worry about fiscal years.

Alas, the stupid leak might be fixed.

At least fixed enough for the showing.

So there I was, chewing an anti-diarrheal while inviting in a snooty-looking blonde, a decade younger than me, and her realtor, who spent a grand total of five minutes in my house—not even bothering to look at the bedroom we'd rushed to save—before deciding it wasn't for her and walking right back out.

Fiscal year. Leak. House showing.

Every little emergency arrived on the same day.

And somehow...

it all got done...As if none of it was urgent after all.

But my ass soup?

That Hershey squirt?

That's eternal.