I grabbed a bottle of bleach wipes and headed toward the bathroom.

“Karen, we need to talk,” growled my invisible cat.

“Not now,” I muttered. “And stop calling me Karen.”

“I’m sorry, but we have to talk. NOW. It’s about the bathroom. The crime scene. The Jackson Pollock of bodily betrayal. I’m not saying it’s your fault…but I am saying … you married him.”

I stopped and raised my eyes heavenward. “I’m aware of the situation, Bizness. He’s got digestive issues. He can’t help it.”

Bizness’s voice raised an octave. “Can’t help it?! Woman, I have seen things. The man has defied physics. There was poop on the ceiling fan, Karen. The. Ceiling. Fan.

“At least it wasn’t spinning this time.” I shrugged.

“Exactly. So riddle me this, Watson?” Bizness said. “As if our lives weren’t already a full-time cleaning commercial, we have a hill out back of the house with a pipe that smells like a haunted outhouse on a humid day.”

“I’m aware. It’s called a septic system, cat. Which part of ‘not now’ did you not understand?”

“Oh, I know what it is, Karen. This is important so pay attention. Naturally, I—Bizness, your unpaid emotional support feline and part-time investigative journalist—was intrigued. I dug deep. Well … figuratively. I am not a dog. What you have is The Hill of Digestive Destiny. The hill in the backyard is a poop palace. A waste water wonder mound. A majestic throne of filtration. And that candy cane pipe is its humble sentinel.”

“You’re not going to let this go, are you?” I huffed.

“I am not. Please assemble in the living room. I’ve prepared a white board presentation.”

“Of course you have,” I said with a defeated sigh.” Wait a minute. We don’t own a white board.”

“I borrowed your sister’s.”

“Oh, fabulous. She’s already questioning my sanity.”

“As do I, Karen, but that’s not the point here, is it? Let it be known: Not all homes are created equal. Some come with a view and others come with a vented poop volcano. In this house? We must bow to the mound. And unlike your husband’s gastrointestinal roulette wheel, I actually understand how this works. So sit down. I’m about to educate your charmingly clueless face.”

I stomped into the living room to see a white board and a pointer being wielded by an invisible paw.

“Now that you’ve entered the majestic age of creaky knees and home inspections, you’ve started asking the big questions like:

• Why is my yard shaped like a frosted cupcake with plumbing?
• What exactly am I feeding the mound today?
• Why does the candy cane pipe hiss at me when I walk by?”

He smacked each bullet point with his pointer like it owed him money.

“I have never asked any of those questions,” I protested.

“And that’s the problem, Karen. So zip it and stick with me. Welcome to the rustic romance of rural utilities, where you will:

• Become intimately acquainted with the phrase “leach field.”
• Learn that a “lift station” isn’t where you tone your triceps.
• And discover the thrill of hoping your water softener doesn’t murder your bacteria friends.”

“I am confident I don’t really need to know any of this, cat,” I grumbled.

“Oooh, but you do, Karen. Our yard’s soil is unworthy. Too soggy. Too shallow. Possibly hexed. In other words, our yard’s soil is garbage and probably built on top of a cursed cranberry bog.”

“So what, cat?” I asked, giving the white board the side-eye.

“Let’s not be rude, Karen,” the cat sniffed, and tapped out his next bullet points. “What this means is our poop can’t just go away like the neighbors.

• So the gods of waste engineering built a mountain.
• And now, a pump shoots the “processed material” from the septic tank UP into the hill.
• Up there, it filters through layers of gravel, sand, and shame.
• The “stuff” gets filtered up there. Then it slowly trickles into the Earth in a ritual I like to call The Purification of Past Burritos.
• The pipe—the one shaped like its handing out peppermint sticks—releases methane into the wild blue yonder so our yard doesn’t explode from internal gas pressure. Festive. Fragrant. Functional.”

“Lovely,” I quipped, side-eyeing the diagram of doom.

“Which leads me to our next points. The Stages of Septic Self-Discovery:
If you’re new to this glamorous world of rural waste management, here’s what you can expect:
Poop Panic – “What’s that smell? Is it alive?”
Filtration Fascination – “Ohhh so bacteria are actually my friends?”
Maintenance-Minded Zen – “I am one with the leach field. I accept the pump’s gentle hum.”

I regarded the cat’s white board picture masterpiece and bullet points before saying, “This is all …really horrifying.”

“I know,” snapped the cat. “So. Next time you buy a house … read the septic disclosures, Karen, instead of counting bedrooms and imagining where the Christmas tree goes. Let’s face it. YOU bought a house with a vented digestive volcano in the backyard and a husband who treats the bathroom like a paintball arena.”

“Fair point,” I thought.

“So, last, but not least. Here are your septic sanity survival tips.

1. No “flushable” wipes. Ever. Not even the ones with angels on the box.
2. Stop using antibacterial soap. You’re murdering the very bacteria that keep the septic alive.
3. Space out your laundry. That hill has limits. Your husband does not.
4. Do NOT plant trees on the mound. Roots are jerks.
5. Keep the candy cane vent clear. No squirrels. No decor. No, you may not hang a wreath on it.”

He tapped each bullet point with his telescopic wand of unnecessary drama.

“Anything else, Professor Poop?”

“Yes. The next time your husband Jackson Pollocks the toilet, please don’t scream, ‘Oh come ON!’ loud enough to startle me off the windowsill. I have delicate nerves. And also, I was watching the birds.”

“Until you’ve mastered a bleach pen and a battle mop,” I said, crossing my arms, “maybe don’t come at me like that.”

There was a faint rustle, and I just knew he’d facepalmed into his little paws.

“Fine,” he said at last. “You clean, you care, you carry the house, the hill, and the man with the magical bowels. You are a warrior. Just maybe… aim him a little better?

“Hey! It’s not my fault he’s got the trajectory of a broken fire hose!”

“What about installing a BB gun weapon’s turret aimed at his bum, Karen? You good with handling the laser?”

“Oh, I’ll handle the laser, Bizness, but if I miss and hit you mid-eye roll, I’ll consider it a public service,” grabbing my bleach wipes again and heading to the bathroom to clean up after the man, the myth, the legend, the Picasso of Poop … my husband.