Goddammit.
It is SO my life that the reality-defying BLACK SAND incident from yesterday seems like so much small change. I long for dunes of BLACK SAND, at this point in time... the foolish man built his house upon the sand...
So, today, we find our heroine dropping Sparky off for various and sundry fun and picnics (after DRESSING her re: she thinks that painting her nails just as she is getting ready to leave the house is an exercise in good timing "okay, now can you dig my bus fare out of my front pocket for me ?" Sure, whatever - what shall I do next ? Just pop a goddamned M&M in my mouth, and I'm good to go...
Well, what I do next is have an innocent tinkle in the loo (The BLACK SAND Room). I notice a characteristically slow flush, and am not too concerned. Our unit is razor-sensitive to even minuscule changes in barometric pressure, so we are very careful wif our bid-nass. Looks like one of The Girls (their goddamned specialty) has clogged the bastard and not bothered to mention it to any goddamned person who can use a fecking plunger. Goddammit. Okay - after it re-fills a tad, I will plunge the actual depths. Whatever.
As I consider lunching, I hear a louder-than-usual watery noise emanating from The BLACK SAND Room. Still not concerned : in addition to the Touchy Toilet, we have a leak in The Sink (new since yesterday !) , so I attribute the racket to the 2 (two) leaky fixtures. Okay, okay - whatever (again and always "whatever" works best for me at this juncture of my ridiculous life.) Let me see here...
OH MY GOD !! The BLACK SAND Room (no exaggeration) is 4 INCHES DEEP IN COURSING WATER !! Coursing. It doesn't really hit me (see "whatever") until I see that the carpeting in the hall is also soaked through. And duck-squishy. Oh my my...I instantly shut the bitch down, and frantically apply toweling, rugs, and dirty laundry to the Great Lake. I am still not considering calling a plumber - such is my madness. (And, NO - we NEVER call the landlord, much to my mother's disbelief. The man is a nosy old bitch, and has only raised our rent $100 since 1986 : 'nuff said. Okay, think think think..
My "thinking" is interrupted by my own hysterical shouting as I race down to the basement. Of course, it is leaking MADLY in the basement, what with rising things converging and all. I frantically look for a lance or a spear so that I can puncture the ceiling as it buckles under The Weight of Water.
I hate my life. So I have just permanently damaged the fecking ceiling in the basement by insanely poking a hole in it as it begins to crumble and collapse on my tender head. Can I get a "Goddammit "?
(All together now : "What. Ever.") A basement that is now filled with water, and I am thisclose to not giving a shit. About anything. Ever again.
Okay : chuck the spear and head back upstairs. I now have a good 5 foot stack (no lie) of towels and rugs and sopping clothing in the shower : I figure the shower is supposed to be wet, so I should be okay for now. Plus, I just let the case of toilet paper and the bag of feminine protection products just stay put on the damned (ocean) floor - soak this up, bitches ! I made the mistake, however of "storing" 3 beach towels in the sink to use later on the hallway carpet puddling. Oops - they just soaked up the sink leak !
I do, however, possess some much-needed perspective : our plumbing problems go way back...we used to have the guy (Master Plumbing - I call him The Pipe Whisperer - the best SF plumber you're not using) out here at lest 6 or 7 times a year to address....the flood of raw sewage in the basement. (Aside : why always "raw" sewage - would you rather "cooked" ?) Pipeage in SF (at least around these parts) contains (not copper) pipes in the sidewalk which are surrounded by ancient clay pipes, and then actual (black ?) sand gets in between these two (2) types of piping and then there is shit next to the washing machine. The actual bottom line involves digging up the sidewalk, replacing the pipes with something from at least the last century, and not living on the edge all the damned time. (Shit in the street - the City's fault, shit anywhere from the house to the curb, my fault.) The BIG BIG fix here would also involve totally re-wiring the joint - we don't even have circuit breakers. PG&E has labeled the domicile "a real hotbox". Label this, you heartless killers... (Plus, the leaky windows and the BLACK mold.)
Aww, now I'm just being a whiny baby. What else do you expect from someone who is wearing no pants (had to rip them off and throw them on the flood) and sitting at the computer DURING a household crisis ? Shit - I've already speared the fecking ceiling - what else do you want from me ?
I now feel a mixture of destructive, apathetic, violent, spent, sad, horrified, numb, - and just so totally over it. Soulless, disgusted, fat (I guess The Flood of 2010 will be my cardio workout for the day), appalled, defeated, and sleepy. Shocked, irritated, avoidant, and crazy.
As ever.
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