Die, June Cleaver, die!

I just spent a great weekend hanging out with my BFF. We’ve known each other since 5th grade, so we pretty much have to stay friends – we know too much. Good thing she’s so cool and good thing she can put up with me.

God is evidently forcing me to give up my June Cleaver on Crack persona. It’s really hard to believe for even a moment that you’re the hostess with the mostest when your BFF travels across the country to visit you and the two of you spend an entire day watching the plumber drag all sorts of equipment through your house in an effort to clean out your clogged main line. You’re really delusional if you think that giving your house guest your car keys and telling her she can run down to the Wild Oats to heed nature’s call is among Martha Stewart’s guidelines for hostessing.

The main line is clogged and bent and generally wonky. I’ve been crying and drinking heavily and praying that I won’t actually have to shell out $4K to replace it. Meanwhile, Mr. Wonderful has been talking to the plumber, the plumber’s boss, RotoRooter, and the city. He now boasts an encyclopedic knowledge of residential plumbing. I now have yet another reason to love him for all time.

And BFF and I just sat on the couch and drank and talked about life and people in our hometown. We’ve been friends for 21 years now, so we got our friendship good and drunk. And we watched Bon Jovi hosting SNL. And she was delighted to schlep down to Mr. Wonderful’s house – dogs en tow – when we couldn’t use my plumbing at all.

See why she’s my BFF?

The plumbers are going to come back tomorrow, and hopefully $100 and an hour should solve the problem. BFF flew back home this afternoon, and so I won’t have her moral support here. If the $100 and an hour don’t fix the problem, I just might show up on her doorstep and demand to sleep on her couch indefinitely.

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