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Right now I'm |
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April 30, 2003Dear Liza, there's a hole.  What you see here is the result of an eeny weeny teeny tiny pinhole leak in one of the pipes above our kitchen ceiling. What you don't see here is me coming home yesterday afternoon, ostensibly to lay down and recover from an upset stomach, but instead cursing, trying several times to raise Calvin on his cell phone, mopping up a WHOLE BUNCH of water, and putting a pot under the steady stream/drip/stream. Actually, the leak didn't cause that huge gaping hole. No, the only outward display it generated was the aforementioned lake in the kitchen, and a huge water-filled bubble in the latex painted ceiling (had I been less flustered, I would have taken a picture of that, too). So, after toweling and mopping and turning off the water main, I did what anyone else faced with a water-filled paint bubble just a breath away from bursting would do. I poked it with something pointy. And the water gushed down. But right into the pot. Because I'm smart that way, and thought ahead. Clever, clever girl. Calvin called me back, and I explained the situation to him. So when he got home, he girded his loins (heh. loins.) and braced himself for an annoying - at best, or hugely costly - at worst, job. He peeled back the paint (latex paint is cool - all rubbery and stretchy like a balloon) and cut down the soaking drywall. Squinting into the darkness, he couldn't tell where the leak was coming from. Getting a light and climbing the ladder, he couldn't tell where the leak was coming from. So I ran outside while he stood up on the ladder with his head stuck in the hole (hey, now, you dirty minded readers), while I carefully and slowly turned on the water main. Then turned it off again five seconds later (specifically. five.). Ran back inside, and Calvin was backing down the ladder with drops on his arms. "Yep. Found it." It was, of course, just this side of impossible to reach without tearing down the kitchen cabinets and doing some major demolition. But Calvin being bendy the way he is, he was able to contort himself between the 2x4's and piping to get to it. Off we went for the obligatory trip to Lowe's (and gee, I haven't had an opportunity lately to kvetch about how much I HATE THAT PLACE!), bought $18.36 in parts, and 45 minutes later had a repaired pipe. During that 45 minutes Calvin and I both perched on top of the kitchen counters, arms and heads above the ceiling, while he cut the pipe and reattached the two ends into this thingy that joins the ends of pipes together, and I held the light ("I'm helping!"). He cursed a lot. I switched arms a lot. I had an Ally McBeal vision of me toppling off the counter, smashing into the ladder, knocking my head on the corner of the refrigerator, and lying in a broken bloody heap to contemplate the remaining seconds of my life on the cold tile floor. Because we were precarious, he and I. Or, well, Calvin would have still been wedged in above the ceiling by his shoulders, should his feet slip. I'd probably grab for any drywall within reach and cause more damage to the ceiling, if I started to fall. In the end, though, all the accolades go to Calvin. I have one very handy man. $18.36 sure as HELL beats calling a plumber, or filing an insurance claim. Now we just have to a) patch the ceiling; b) re-paint the ceiling (hah, here's a silver lining for ya: Calvin's been dying for an excuse to re-paint the kitchen); and c) keep the damn fool asshole cat OUT of the ceiling until we get it fixed. Razzlefrackin' cat. The *first* time he tried to escape up into the crawlspace was not ten minutes after Calvin and I went to bed last night. Like he was waiting for his first opportunity. We know that to be the timing, because we heard Marie rattling around in the kitchen. The next morning there is a note next to the coffee maker. "Cat was in ceiling. Beaten. Crate. If you let him out, watch him!" Yeah, so this morning I let him out of his crate so he can do his catly business and get some food. I fix my cereal, I go in the bedroom to eat it. I come back out, and the cat is leaping off the counter directly under the hole with a guilty look on his face (see, he knows). I holler, I capture, I re-imprison in the crate. This afternoon, I went home for lunch (after dropping off the final payment for our Hawaii trip! Yay!). I let him out of the crate. I fix my lunch, let the dogs in, grab a book and the phone, and camp out on the couch for a pleasant hour. All the while keeping half an eyeball on the cat. I see him oh-so-casually sniffing around the kitchen. He rubs against the cabinets. He casually grooms himself on the throw rug next to the fridge. He eyes me surreptitiously. He makes a move for the counter... "Oz! Don't even think about it!" He bolts from the kitchen, ears back and tail puffed. Wrestles with the dogs for a minute. Takes a couple of bites of food. Chitters from the french doors at the birds in the back yard. Tail a-swish, he saunters back (casually! oh so casually!) into the kitchen. Pauses. Looks back at me. I'm studiously reading my book ("The Nanny Diaries", which is quite good). The crouch... the leap... "THAT'S IT!!!" He jumps back down, feet scattering on the smooth granite, and lands rather ungracefully. Runs in place for a minute to find traction, and races under the kitchen table. Where he and I proceed to dance - I go left, he goes right. I go right, he goes left. I dodge, he scrambles between my feet and under the pool table. Where I go left, he goes right. I go right, he goes left. Finally, I get wise and go make nice with the dogs and snoofie snoofie them. Oz, who can't stand it when they're getting attention and he's not, comes over to investigate. Grab. Yell. Crate. Razzlefrackin' cat.  Tonight, Yanni concert. Tomorrow, details. |