First it was the drip drip from the bathtub faucet. No, wait, months ago there was the drip from the kitchen sink, which required a very expensive repair. Then last week, or two weeks ago, there was the bathtub leak. And then an attempted repair, which led to a lake on the kitchen floor (on the opposite side of the wall from the bathroom). At first we thought the kitchen lake was coming from the dishwasher, and called the dishwasher repair guy, but then realized that the leak only happened when we took showers. Oh, and then the toilet started to screech each time it flushed, with the water pipe connected to the wall doing a little drip drip of its own.
I was pretty sure we were going to drown.
The leaks also seemed to coincide with the constant rain, which caused the bathroom door to swell and have its own panic attack where it tried to jump out of its skin. Really, we kept having to jiggle the door back into its skin in order to close it. Mom took on the project and took the door off its hinges, glued it back together, and put it back in place. I am not handy in that way. I can put together any kind of IKEA furniture, but the door didn’t come with a handy dandy diagram for me to follow, so I was at a loss.
So, the door was fixed, but not the leaks, which only got worse.
I may have written about this before, but I have a phobia of strange men coming into my apartment. Phobia is too light of a word. I would be hiding under my bed, if there weren’t containers of old clothes stored under there, leaving only enough room for Cricket to squeeze in. So, when the maintenance guys came to check on the leaks, I pulled the dogs into my room and shut the door. I’m supposed to be an adult who can manage basic household responsibilities, but in this case, I can’t. The dogs begged to be let out so that they could bark at the invaders in person and tell them what for. But I just stayed in my room, shaking, and waiting for it to be over.
But it wasn’t over, and we had to call the plumber, and then the maintenance guys came back. We have two maintenance men at our co-op, one is quiet and unassuming, and the other is very very loud, smokes cigars, and likes to blame everything on anyone else. It was the loud one who came over to argue with the plumber about what needed to be done. I couldn’t quite make out what anyone was saying from my hiding place, but I could hear the shouting, and it made me regress even further. I don’t do well with shouting.
I really should move the plastic containers out from under my bed, in case this comes up again.
After an hour or two of shouting and futzing around, it was decided that we just had the wrong faucet in the bathtub, and Mom was sent out to get a new one, which, fingers crossed, seems to have solved the problem. For now. The squeaking toilet is going to stay as it is, because the plumber said that repairing it would be prohibitively expensive and we’d be better off waiting for it to die and then replacing it.
The dogs had a great time barking at all of the foot traffic in and out of the apartment, and received an inordinate number of chicken treats in a failed attempt to pacify them. My only consolation is that now I can go back to showering without worrying that I’m creating the next great flood. I was really worried, because I don’t have an ark, and I have no idea how to make one. I’ve never even seen an ark in the IKEA catalog.