My parents are throwing us an engagement party at the end of the summer. I'm not even going to try describing the ruckus over the invitations to avoid melting your brain. I will, however, mention that a certain mother of mine started bugging us about wedding registries before the party date was officially set. I opted to ignore this apparently necessary excursion in favor of playing video games for as long as possible. This was an excellent plan until relatives started asking where we registered.

"You said we didn't have to register until mid-July!"

"Well, I didn't take into account Grandma telling everyone immediately."

Groan.

But wait! We don't actually need anything! Couldn't we just pick a charity and tell people to donate there? Apparently not. People still prefer to give actual gifts, even if they donate something, and without a registry we'd end up with twelve olive green bread warmers. Oh fine.

So here we were, in early June, with no time to spare. I picked Crate & Barrel and Bloomingdales because I did. After a Tuesday full of work, we went to Crate & Barrel to begin scanning that which we don't actually need. We reconnoitered the entire store and found a few things that we could actually use, somethings that were sharp and pointy, and many things that are best described as completely random. Fifty-six items in total. That was more than enough for the time being, right? RIGHT?

The store was about to close and we both wanted to leave. Matt put the scanner in the machine, and I poked options on the screen. Hmm. This doesn't look right. I must have hit the wrong option. No matter, I'll hit the back button.

You have zero items.

What?

WHAT?

The geniuses who made the machine apparently thought that deleting everything off of the scanner immediately was a feature. And if that wasn't bad enough, the back button was not accompanied by any sort of persistence. In other words, after two hours of scanning barcodes, all was lost.

Two employees tried intrepidly to recover that which was lost, but with no success. They were, however, nice enough to let us stay past closing to rescan everything. We ran, and I do mean ran, around the store, quickly rescanning everything. After round two, we only had fifty-one items. Oh well, close enough, let's go.

When half of your items are three dollar napkins, fifty-one items is no where near enough, sadly. In other words, Thursday was Bloomies day! They take registering VERY seriously there. This includes a personal shopper and a bag of goodies, including a $70 bottle of Vera Vang eau de parfum.

We set a world record for making a decision and chose a kate spade china pattern called Crescent Drive. The registry assistant set a place setting with our fancy new plates so we could see how different flatware styles worked. That didn't go quite as well so we put off the decision.

The registry assistant next turned to crystal. Ack! No! No more crystal! We already have sixty-two place settings worth of Waterford; what on earth could we possibly do with more? Collect dust? The assistant was incredulous at the idea of not selecting crystal, but I stood firm.

Another fifty or so items, registration complete.

The title pretty much says it all. Well, not even remotely near all, but it does provide enough of an explanation as to what's in store for my intrepid reader. And who is that reader? Why, my mom, of course. Hi mom!

So where did this craziness begin? Gee, probably with Matt buying me a shiny engagement ring. I could be wrong, but I tend to think the two have a high correlation. Ergo, it's all Matt's fault.

The first thing that every single human being on earth asks when they find out you are engaged is "Have you set a date?" Giving a random answer gets more annoying each time, so by the eighty-second time giving people non-existent dates seems only fair. This is especially true when people start writing down 31 September 2011. I'm not entirely sure how people found the appropriate space to pencil in the event, but if they can't read a calendar, then it's their problem.

After about two weeks, I went completely bonkers. As proof that every last shred of sanity had dripped out my left ear, we quickly reached a decision. And so 17 September 2011 was selected. To further prove just how loony I had become, we then reached a consensus as to where the event would take place. The engagement party would be on the east coast, the wedding ceremony and reception here. Impediment removed.

Perhaps tomorrow I'll regale you with stories of finding the perfect venue without eviscerating anyone in the process.

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All of the townhouses in my development have pipes called laterals that transport waste water out of the unit and to the appropriate main line. As with most old pipes, especially in earthquake areas, the joints lose integrity, tree roots sneak through cracks, and gunk builds up. Repiping is a huge expense, so once a year, my Home Owners Association, henceforth referred to as the HOA, pays for RotoRooter to clean out the laterals. This was last done mid-September and includes removal of tree roots that squirmed into the pipes. At least, it was supposed to.

Yesterday I was forcibly removed from bed by Matt. He was rather perturbed by the water in the garage. His car was wet, but there wasn't much water pooled on the floor and there were no obvious leaks. I turned the shower on while Matt watched for downpours. Nothing happened after a few minutes, so we assumed it was a fluke, possibly caused by the exterior painters powerwashing.

After Matt left, it was my turn for a shower. Just in case, I checked the garage. It was raining! That's generally not supposed to happen indoors. A good 7 x 8 foot area was pouring water and ceiling onto the floor. Everything was quickly flooding. Well, fuck.

I called the drain unclogger that comes whenever I clog the garbage disposal. After describing the problem, he said I needed to get a "real" (his word, not mine) plumber and recommended a guy. I called him, and he was there within an hour. For clarity, he will be known as Plumber 1.

While waiting, I made the mistake of looking in the downstairs bathroom. HOLY SHIT. In EVERY sense of the word. The room was flooded and the toilet and floor were covered in raw sewage. Needless to say, I closed the door and prayed the smell wouldn't escape.

Plumber 1 looked around the house, surveyed the damage, poked the ceiling in the garage, and gave me the bad news. There was so much pressure built up in the lateral that the cap was bulging. Looking for a place to vent, the evil pressure chose the weakest point known as the downstairs toilet. Instead of merely overflowing, the wax seal that attaches the toilet to the exit pipe blew. All the disgusting water drained through the floor and showered the garage in raw sewage. His guess was that a tree root was blocking the very same lateral that was cleaned a mere eight weeks ago!

The ceiling was so wet that integrity was out of the question. Plumber 1 examined the pipes in the garage ceiling while explaining how the system needed to be drained before anything could be fixed. Actually, make that drained and sanitized. Something about raw sewage being a health hazard. Ew.

My first call was to the drain unclogger, now known as Plumber 2. Plumber 1 explained the problem to Plumber 2, who then scheduled two of his men to visit within an hour. The next call was to the sanitation and restoration company recommended by Plumber 1. They were booked until midafternoon, so I scheduled their arrival for 1930.

By the time Plumber 1 left, I really needed to use the bathroom. I knocked on my neighbor Bunny's door, and she was kind enough to let me in without explanation. She came back with me to my personal Superfund Site, then went to retrieve the HOA vice-president, Michelle. In the meantime, I started taking pictures of the damage. Then Plumber 2 arrived and performed their own assessment. All three garbage cans were drafted into catching the flood of doom while I hid upstairs in the less smelly zone.

Michelle performed her own survey and talked with me and Plumber 2. Then she insisted on bringing me a cup of calming tea. Between that amazing cup of tea and her declaration that the HOA would be paying for this mess, I finally started to feel better. Bunny and Michelle were absolutely amazing in asking all the right questions and making sure everything was covered. Michelle even said I could hang onto the mug until I had running water again!

After everybody left, I finally got to go to work. I was never so happy to arrive at the office and I got an amazing parking spot. Things were finally looking up.

I called Matt from my desk to let him know how the catastrophe had played out. He had five minutes of spare time, so he was tasked with finding a hotel for the night. There are a million hotels in the area, but we needed one that wouldn't evict the mutts. They were safe for the day in the master bedroom, but I had no intention of leaving them there overnight. Matt found a room at the Sheraton Gateway and forwarded me the confirmation email.

I took one look at the email and immediately called Matt. Did he read the email carefully? Nope. Did he read the subject? Not that either. Well, he should have since the phone rep booked the room for the Sheraton Gateway Atlanta instead of the Sheraton Gateway LAX. Oops. The phone rep was kind enough to waive the same-day cancellation fee and moved the reservation.

Our garage was very much off-limits, so Matt retrieved me from work while my car remained in my amazing spot. Upon arriving home, we quickly packed an overnight bag and walked over to thank and update Michelle. I may have used her bathroom.

Next it was sanitation time! He arrived promptly and I explained the nature of the disaster to him. He went to work all over the house to determine all the areas of infection. Michelle joined us for the estimation part of the show since she would be writing the check. Just for the sanitation and removal of the goop of doom it was $2000. After getting a few signatures, he got to work scaring the dogs with loud equipment. Sadly, he wouldn't be able to do anything with the garage ceiling that night since it needed to be tested for asbestos. After testing and, if necessary, removal his contractor could start repairing the ceiling and bathroom floor.

Speaking of the bathroom floor, he did clean it, but the planks need to be replaced. As long as we're replacing the planks, perhaps we should tile the bathroom? YES.

By the time he finished with decontamination, it was almost 11 and the dehumidifiers and air purifier were competing for Cause of Headache. By the time we were in our hotel room, it was nearly midnight. But there was water! Clean water! And it was all properly contained! The dogs, on the other hand, we very confused as to what was happening.

Skip not enough hours and we found ourselves back in the car, heading home. The asbestos company called to schedule their testing. I called Plumber 1 to schedule repairs. Matt dropped me off at work and then headed to school.

I was there for almost an hour trying to collect work to do at home before I had to vamoose. The asbestos guy was first to arrive. He took his samples and gave me his opinion. While he would still test the samples in the lab, he was 99% positive that it was asbestos. Due to the way that it had been sprayed all over the garage ceiling, the best option is to remove all of it from the ceiling, pipes, walls, spiders, et cetera. The ceiling would have to be re-soundproofed. It could probably be done in one long day, but the EPA needs to approve, so that is not happening until after Thanksgiving. I'll be sure to take pictures of the space cadets when they get to work.

Last, but certainly not least, came Plumber 1. He is replacing the wax ring around the toilet, making sure everything is nicely sealed, and performing a full inspection of the pipes in the garage ceiling. By the time he leaves, the important majority of our house will be cleared for takeoff! First stop, Planet Laundry!

That Which Was Lost:
*tiki statue that guards the front door (he was in the garage due to the exterior painting)
*a pile of beach towels
*two beach bags
*two cases bottled sparkling water of the lime persuasion
*an extra-long hose and spray nozzle
*a no longer very convenient Victorinox boarding tote
*two 10-packs paper towels

:-(

Update: All three samples tested positive for asbestos. The asbestos guy is now writing up his proposal and estimate. I can hardly wait!

Further Update: We have officially surpassed the HOA's insurance deductible! The asbestos estimate is just under $3000! I have to write an official letter saying that the asbestos removal is due to an emergency repair situation so the EPA can waive its 14 day waiting period!

The LA Times just had to throw it in my face with ANOTHER cover story about the giant pile of stupidity surrounding Roman Polanski. Yes, there are many irregularities in how the case was handled. The prosecutor and judge were obviously biased, and Monsieur Polaski didn't help things by fleeing the country. Now all sorts of celebrities are crying foul: it's the past; he's an artistic genius so he's allowed to be eccentric; it was "making love" (that's how Polaski himself described it). However, none of that changes the fact that HE RAPED A 13 YEAR OLD GIRL. There isn't a caps lock button big enough to adequately express my outrage at the people who publicly support him for entirely inadequate reasons.

Hollywood is bursting at the seams with rich crazy people of questionable morals. All too often these creative souls' actions are dismissed without consequence. I have to ask, though, what kind of person is willing to ignore the intoxication and rape of young girl by a man more than three times her age? Let's suppose, just for a minute, that she not only consented, but was voluntarily participating. While still statutory rape for blindingly obvious reasons*, consensual sex with someone physically and mentally mature enough to make reasonable decisions about her own body is significantly less heinous than ignoring the same girl's wishes and forcing himself upon her. In this Hypothetical Land, the one Polanski seems to be inhabiting, his actions could reasonably be overlooked by some. While I would not, I can understand why others would.

Moving back to reality, she did not consent. Just because he didn't beat her up and tie her to a radiator in the process does not excuse his ignoring of her "No." Though less violent than other cases, IT WAS STILL RAPE. I cannot fathom why anyone would be so willing to allow the perpetrator, who readily admits his guilt, to go free of punishment. To be clear, living a life of luxury and cinematic awards on a different continent is not punishment. Jail time is punishment.

On a whole different level, what does it say about people like Whoopi Goldberg and Woody Allen when they publicly support a child rapist? Do they also think it is acceptable to set puppies on fire and kick them off cliffs? To my knowledge, Kevin Smith is the only celebrity to point out the ridiculousness of defending Polanski. At least he isn't a puppy killer.

*I'll give you a hint - as the adult, he should have ceased and desisted.