Sometimes your condo gets flooded.
It’s odd, but since it wasn’t my fault (some clown on the fourth floor installed something, or had something installed, that malfunctioned, dripping its incompetent pain on the units below) I don’t feel quite as bad. If my condo flooded because of my own idiocy, I would be embarrassed and appalled (and feeling guilty for any inconvenience I was causing my neighbors). When you come home from work to find your place flooded, you can lift your skinny fists high and shout at an unjust God, or you can laugh and pour yourself a Blanton’s on the rocks. And enjoy the show.
The show?
For anyone who has had this happen, the post-flood crime scene consists of a team of workers descending upon your unit, holding Geiger counter looking contraptions up to the walls and ceiling to ascertain if there is water inside. Unfortunately, although my floors were dry (this after they’d been suctioned and vacuumed and mopped) my walls were fairly pregnant with water, waiting to burst out like champagne at a wedding reception. And so these fine gentlemen went to work, cutting holes in my bathroom, kitchen and living room walls (see picture above) to clear out the water, and make room for the other contraption that pumps the water out. If anyone has ever had the misfortune of being in the hospital as someone has recovered from surgery, these machines are exactly like the ones that suction out the excess fluids from the patient’s body. In this case, they are sucking water out of my walls and draining into my sink. They are very loud.
I also have a Greek chorus of dehumidifiers, cranked up to a Spinal Tap-like 11, and those suckers need to be operating like this for at least 72 hours. Ouch. In order to sleep last night, I put myself in urban mode and pretended I was in New York City (a great place I’ve had many a restless night) and the discordant cries became oddly comforting hums; the static of traffic without the obligatory and incessant horn blasts from cranky cab drivers.
I am lucky. My kitchen and bathroom floors are tile, so the water came right up; and only a small spot on my carpet was affected. My bedroom and the “sweet spot” of my living room (i.e., where the TV and audio components stand) were dry as Al Gore, so there was no significant damage done. As to the holes in my walls, I wonder if the condo association (to whom I begrudgingly pay ever-escalating and absurdly high dues each month) steps up here, or if I’m SOL and utilize my home owner’s insurance (to whom I begrudgingly pay ever-escalating and absurdly high dues each year). We shall see.
In the meantime, my eyes work, my ears work, and my laptop works, and I happen to endorse the old saying, When life gives you lemons, go to YouTube and find different (and brilliant) versions of the immortal Peter Gabriel masterpiece. This can wash away the pain until Blanton’s steps in to do some heavy lifting once the sun sets.
