Right now I am hiding from my problems in a coffee shop. Unlike usual life travails which have the ability to follow you around no matter your change of place, this problem is very stuck in one geographical location: my kitchen.
Last night I was midway through my Single Women Empowerment Movie Binge Watching Session (I had finished ‘Under the Tuscan Sun’ and was halfway through ‘Eat Pray Love,’) when I heard a bizarre sound coming from my kitchen. At first I thought I had left something on the stove, but when I rushed over I saw a small crack in the ceiling with a little water dripping through it to land on top of my cabinets.
“[Expletive],” I thought. I contacted my landlord via email to let them know what was happening, and went back to my movie.
About half an hour later, I heard a new, louder dripping sound. I went back into the kitchen to investigate, and saw that a new crack had appeared, spanning the kitchen ceiling, with a lot more water coming through, this time landing on my floor. I put bowls under the leaks, and called the emergency contact number for my landlord.
I was told to go upstairs and let my neighbors know about the issue, and that someone would be by tomorrow morning to check it out. “Er, it’s really a lot of water,” I said, watching the water plonk into the waiting bowls. “Ok, I’ll come by this evening,” replied the guy on the line. “It’ll be a while, though – I’m in Baltimore dealing with another urgent problem.”
I went upstairs to knock on my neighbors’ door. No answer. I tried again and again, without luck. I can’t say I was overly surprised, since the only times I’ve knocked on their door before has been to politely ask them to turn down their thumping base at 11:30 pm on weeknights. I am not sure they like me.
Of course, when I came downstairs, yet another crack had appeared, in a totally different part of my kitchen, dripping water on top of my fridge. I got out another bowl.
I finished the movie.
At this point, the water had mostly stopped dripping, and the only real sign of problems were the long lines spanning my kitchen ceiling. So I called the handyman back, and let him know that we could both wait until the morning.
Morning came. By the time I returned from my jog, the water had returned with a vengeance, a steadily dripping into all three bowls scattered around my kitchen. I gave one last call to the handyman to let him know that things were getting even worse, and I fled.
Now I am happily ensconced in a nearby coffee shop, very glad that A) this is not my problem, B) the leaks are in the kitchen, and not over my bed, and C) this did not happen while I was in Argentina.
Of course this occurs right when I’m considering home ownership. Hmm.