One of the things I found myself doing yesterday (and several days prior)—before I wrote about the difference between Young Blogging Me and the current Old And Smarter But Fatter And Crankier Me—was going back and reading some of my old posts. I don’t do this very often. And usually, you know, I remember stuff I wrote about before (duh), but occasionally a post is a COMPLETE surprise (read: repressed memory), and very often, something falls into the realm of “Oh, I remember that, but until I read this, I had kinda-sorta forgotten.”
So it was just yesterday that I found myself rereading various posts detailing The Great Flood of 2006, wherein my basement flooded not once, but TWICE, and I came down with bronchitis and was convinced I had mold in my lungs from all of the associated cleanup, because that’s logical and also I am a little bit of a hypochondriac. Know what our lovely home here in Georgia doesn’t have? A BASEMENT. That makes it my most favorite house ever, by the way.
Anyway, that’s preface to what I’ll tell you next, because yes, I was a little… uhhhh… primed with memories of water disasters.
Our weather this week has been AHMAAAAAAZING, by the way. Mid-January in Georgia means temperatures in the 70s, sometimes, and although Otto has grumbled a bit about how it’s “just not right,” I am loving the balmy days regardless of the date. Some people miss seasons (Otto). And some people just like warm, sunny days (me). So it’s been warm and lovely and then the rain moved in. In fact, our weather forecast suggested we might have SNOW today, and that’s always kind of exciting because BLESS THEIR HEARTS, many people in the south lose their minds when they see snowflakes.
The snow never materialized. But the rain has been relentless today. And rainy days and Mondays always get me down, man. Wait. Mondays aren’t a problem, actually. Rainy days make me feel BLAH. So it’s raining and raining and it’s also a homeschool day, so Monkey and I are going about our respective work assignments in our pajamas, and the dog is basically lying on my floor with her legs crossed because SHE IS A PRINCESS and the only way to get her outside when it’s raining is either to wait until bladder explosion is imminent or to carry her out there. (She hasn’t been out since 10:30 last night. My little dog has a bladder of steel.) We are all doing the Rainy Day Thing, is my point.
And I had just recently been reminded of the horror that was water in the house. CUE THE MUSIC.
So just a little while ago, I heard… dripping. Not the steady drone of the water on the porch and the roof, as I’d been hearing, but what sounded like dripping just off of my office, in the kitchen.
“Self,” I said to myself, “this is like watching a horror movie and then sleeping with a butcher knife under your pillow. That rain horror was a long time ago, and THIS house is perfectly fine! And leak-free! And YOU ARE IMAGINING SO SHUT UP.”
This worked for a few minutes. But the DRIP DRIP DRIP sound continued.
“Self,” I said to myself, “that is just water dripping off a plate in the sink. Or something. Why not just go check and put your silly fears to rest?”
I walked into the kitchen and went straight to the sink. No dishes were in there, by the way, nor was the faucet dripping. That was… unsettling.
PLINK PLINK PLINK PLINK
I closed my eyes and focused on the sound. It seemed to be coming from somewhere to my left, over by the kitchen table. I took a deep breath, opened my eyes, and headed to the table area to have a look around.
Staring at the ceiling from various angles yielded no clues. I felt around on the floor—perfectly dry—and grew increasingly frantic because I HEAR IT I HEAR SOMETHING DRIPPING and I just couldn’t figure out what the heck I was looking for or whether there was water inside or….
Hold the phone. Right outside the lovely, large bay window there is our outdoor table. That table is made of metal and ceramic tiles, and SURELY water hitting its surface might, in a torrential downpour such as this, sound… different? Louder? Maybe loud enough to make one think there was a drip INSIDE when in fact everything was JUST FINE?? I stood there for a minute, motionless, ear nearly touching the window, trying to determine if the noise was coming from out there. I glared at the table while I did it. STUPID LOUD TABLE.
In trying to move EVEN CLOSER to the table’s level on the other side of the window, I finally put my hand on the bay window’s sill, and had I not done that, I might’ve concluded that the noise really was coming from outside. Alas, my thumb—wrapped around the underside of the sill—landed squarely in a tiny rivulet of water. On the inside. Coursing down the wall.
I said some words. Many words. Words not suitable for tender ears.
What followed was a carnival of clumsy incompetence—me sussing out all of the places the water was coming in, frantic patting of the entire section of wall to figure out JUST HOW WET we were talking, precarious arrangements of plastic containers wedged JUST SO to catch incoming drops, and a frantic text message to Otto to say “There is water drooping down the kitchen wall!!” (thanks, autocorrect)—and eventually my panic slowed to a dull roar. Drips were contained, baseboards were mopped up, plans were made, and OH YEAH, the outside table was moved away from where its overflow was dripping on the outside sill. Whoops.
Otto lovingly talked me down from ZOMG WATER DAMAGE WET WALL KITCHEN GUTTING AAAIIIEEEEEEEEEE fit I was still trying to have, and now the rain has let up some, and really, not a big deal in the general scheme of things. I know.
Is there such a thing as PTFD (Post-Traumatic Flooding Disorder)? I think I might have that.