Who farted?

As noted yesterday, my life has turned to shit.

Figuratively. 

And literally. 

Shortly after my wife's Celebration of Life ceremony, the relatives started going back home. At one point we had  close to a dozen guests staying at our "Culver City Hilton." That's a lot of showering, dishwashing and 'pishy/caca', as Deb liked to say.

My daughters, who agreed to stay behind and keep me company during this dark and clouded time said they started noticing a foul smell. A sewage smell. These are not all that unusual given our proximity to Ballona Creek and the city's intricate and aged sewage system. 

After enough nagging, I decided to bring in a plumber. Actually, the second plumber. The first one could find nothing wrong, snaked out my toilet and took me for 150 bucks. Don't ever call Dr. Plumber to the Rescue in Culver City should some orange rinds clog your garbage disposal or some pre-digested Orange Chicken and Hot Peppers Hoover Dam your toilet. 

The second, more professional, plumber threw on some overalls, grabbed his high powered halogen flashlight, slid into the crawl space between the lower sub flooring and the raised foundation. He emerged 35 minutes later. 

And the news was shitty.

The sewer mainline under the house, made of 1947's finest heavy duty cast iron, had rust and rot and cracks. And had in his words, "outlived its usefulness." 

I was looking at a major 7-day job and a full three man crew. Not to mention a 5-digit repair bill. A perfect capper on 5 &1/2 years of personal hell.

At this point most of the work has been completed. And I still don't understand how Martin and Jorge, can do what they do and work all subterranean-like. Not just because of the claustrophobia but also the fecalphobia.

These guys, as my older daughter noted, "do God's work."

It no longer smells like we live in Smell Segundo. And with the exception of one bathroom sink, all the clean new lines are functioning at 100% and flushing the eflluent down to the Hyperion Water Treatment plant before it is returned to the deepest, darkest remote crevices of the Mariana Trench, hopefully.

Now, as my younger daughter aptly noted, if there's any emittance of a foul smell it came from me. 

Or more likely, our dog Lucy.