On Thursday night we were watching TV and noticed that a water bubble had formed in the ceiling. Then J. felt around and the entire ceiling felt cold. Then we traced this to its source, the upstairs guest bathroom. We discovered it had been leaking steadily for what’s probably several days, soaking the drywall and wood frame of the floor below it. ENSUE MASS PANIC.
This is a bathroom we never use, and we keep the door closed. If our bratty ex-roommate had still been living here, no doubt she would have caught this much earlier. LE SIGH.
J. had Friday off and took care of calling the insurance company and getting a contractor to come over. But he had been planning to go to the coast for the weekend with his buddies for a wine festival, as they do every year. I was looking forward to the nicest, quietest weekend at home, spent cooking, sleeping, and watching awful television.
“When you get home,” my betrothed wrote me in an e-mail, “Don’t look in the upstairs bathroom. Just don’t.”
So I walk in and the house is emitting a steady, deafening hum from no fewer than 4 industrial-sized fans and 2 industrial-sized dehumidifiers. 4 downstairs, 2 upstairs. I find I’m not supposed to turn them off all weekend, so they can dry out the ceiling and the bathroom.
Did I mention the entire bathroom has been gutted, the ripped-out sink is now in my office, and a patch of drywall about 3 X 10 ft has been cut out of the ceiling?
My nice quiet weekend shot to shit, I had a glass or three of wine and tried my best to not punch multiple walls. The cats are terrified. The neighbors probably think we’ve successfully set up a meth lab. I finally turned off the upstairs bathroom fan to help me get some sleep, then dutifully woke up at 6 to turn it back on.
We are covered for this mess, minus our deductible, and it’ll only take about, oh, 3 weeks to redo the ceiling and bathroom.
Meanwhile, it’s raining and I’m so desperate to get of the house that I’m very seriously considering seeing Wanderlust. F.M.L.
Homeownership: Do Never Buy.