About a year ago, we discovered a leak behind a wall in the kitchen. Some day I’ll tell you that story. Needless to say, every time my neighbor turns on his waterfall next door, I leap up in a panic screaming, “We have another leak! Run!” Sometimes, in the middle of the night, I dream of that leak and wake up as my bladder releases and soaks my wife’s side of the bed.
Last week, I took Friday off to get the laundry done (yes, I do the laundry – sexist pigs!). I walked into the laundry room with a load of clothes in my arms – some reds, some whites, some dry cleaning only. . . you know, the usual load for a hot water wash.
As I was shoving the load into the too small washer, I stepped in a wet spot on the throw rug in front of the washer. Thinking Bear the Hairy Chihuahua had an “accident,” I grabbed my wife’s silk blouse (it was the closest thing) and bent to wipe it up.
Well, as I was swearing about how useless silk was as a rag, I felt a drop on my head. At first, I thought it was one of the few remaining hairs on my head falling out. But then I felt another drop and, knowing I didn’t have that many hairs left, started muttering to myself, “No, please! Please, please, please. . .”
As I stood there muttering to myself, adding bleach to the washer, water slowly dripped down my face. I realized it wasn’t just my tears, so I closed my eyes, put the silk rag, er, shirt in the washer, and pressed some button on the washer to start the load, then walked out of the laundry room.
I sat down in the living room to watch some HGTV, determined to pretend nothing was wrong, hoping it would go away. Unfortunately, some poor schmuck was remodeling his kitchen after a water leak. Not wanting to relive my own nightmare, I got up, threw up in the bathroom, then walked, dry-heaving all the way, back into the laundry room.
My life had been running too smoothly, lately: the bill collectors hadn’t located my new phone number, yet; the car still had three cylinders working; the dog only threw up on special occasions, and; my wife hadn’t noticed I traded in the diamond from her wedding ring for cubic zirconia. I figured it was time.
I looked up. To my amazement, the paint covering the drywall was bulging with about 32 gallons of water. “Oh, Sh@#!” I yelled. Since I rarely yell or swear, my 18 year-old figured something was up. I heard him drop his bong out of surprise, then yell at me for disrupting his video-game. Fortunately, his “girlfriend the stripper,” who was studying pre-law at the local community college on a grant from Strippers Without Borders was there, and came running in her stilettos to see if I was okay.
Ultimately, with her help, I was able to make a small puncture in the bubble and drain most of the water into a 30 gallon trash can. Man, that girl was strong. Even in stilettos, she needed no help carrying that trash can outside and dumping the water.
After I took a much needed donut break, I proceeded to take my wife’s expensive bread knife (well, it kinda looks like a drywall knife) and cut a hole in the ceiling. Then I cut a bigger hole. Then I grabbed some wet, moldy drywall and broke off a piece. Then I realized what a mess drywall makes, and had another donut.
Well, you get the picture. Ultimately, me and the stripper (Kandi with a “K” and an “i”) were able to figure out there was a leak. I held the ladder while she climbed up and. . . er, never mind.
Any way, Kandi fixed the leak for me (who knew she was a stripper AND a plumber AND a pre-law student?) But she doesn’t do drywall.
Kandi says she has some co-workers that can do it. So, later, I am going to Bill’s Discount Stripperia to hire a drywaller. Sweeet!