When It Rains, My Wallet Pours

Before settling into bed on Wednesday night, I used the bathroom in the dark. I flushed the toilet and started to wash my hands. Suddenly, the sound of rushing water grew louder – and it wasn’t coming from the spout. I threw the light switch to find the toilet had become a fountain with water flowing everywhere.

“Help!” I yelled for Laura who was already dozing off. “Water! Everywhere! Coming out!” All I could muster was sentence fragments. There was no time for full or complex sentence sat this point. Every second meant the world.

Laura shot from the bed and ran to the garage for the plunger (a terrible place to keep it, in my opinion). By the time she brought the plunger to me, the water was already a half inch deep on the bathroom floor. I tried to shut the water off at the toilet, but it wasn’t working!

“It’s raining in the basement!” Laura said as she threw the plunger to me. “What?! Raining?!” I stopped trying to turn the water off and ran downstairs to see a steady rain in the basement.
I threw open the door to the closet beneath the stairs and reached for the main water valve. I didn’t know which way to turn it. Righty tighty, lefty loosey? Is that the saying? Huh? What? Where?

“You have to call someone now!” I yell-whine. My eyebrows are floating over my head at this point.
“Who do I call? It’s midnight!”
“They’re 24 hours Laura, you can call whenever!”
“I’m not calling anyone now!”
“You HAVE to!”

This was getting us nowhere, so I tightened the valve to the right and I heard the water shut off. It continued to rain in the basement – but why?

It took a second to realize that the water was leaking from the bathroom floor and into the basement. So I ran into the garage to get the wet/dry vacuum -- forgetting I had left a bunch of dirty water inside for a few months or so. Since Laura’s car was in the garage, I had to lift the vacuum over my head, allowing the rank water to drip onto me (and the car).

I pushed the stupid vacuum up the dumb stairs and into the dim-witted bathroom only to find very little water remaining on the floor. This made sense because all that water was seeping through the floor and into the basement thanks to the worthless grout around the stupid green tile! Stupid, crappy grout job!

In the end, the tiles in the bathroom were looser than ever with more grout coming up, nearly a dozen ceiling tiles in the basement were soaked and needed replaced, and the carpet (along with many of our personal items) were left soaked and slightly stained. Several items had to be thrown away.

And now, I am stuck with the task of replacing the ceiling tile; cutting them into different triangles and lengths. It will be the ultimate test of my “manhood” as I attempt another home improvement project. (Heck, I face a challenge every time I try to apply caulk to the bathtub!)

It’s taken me a long time to admit that I’m not handy simply because I’m embarrassed to admit it. Growing up, my Dad was always useful around the house. He was able to successfully complete anything he attempted – whether it was replacing a bathroom counter, installing a new sink or even mounting a new faucet in the backyard – he was able to do it all. Whenever he started a new project, he would ask me to “help” him. We all knew I was just a flashlight holder, but it was through these projects where Dad taught me how to do things around the house for myself.

Now I have my own home and I know next to nothing about it. Earlier today, I bought a 500 + page book on home improvements and repairs. I browsed through it at the store, admiring its illustrations, diagrams and well designed layout. I just hope I can look beyond the book as a writer and designer and actually apply its lessons.

(This post may evolve into an essay.)