Water Water Everywhere

Two weeks ago, the screen door from our bedroom to the top of our garage was torn off its hinges by some crazy winds. When it rains, water leaks into the garage and the bedroom. Water is no friend of interior walls and ceilings.

One week ago the pipes beneath the sink in the downstairs half-bath began leaking. Water spilled all over the wife’s cosmetics and Patch’s spare diaperage. Water is no friend to cabinets, floors, sheet-rocked walls and the impossible-to-reach corners where they all meet.

Four days ago the dryer stopped spinning. With a full load of just about all my clothes sitting inside. Yeah, heat from the gas line still pipes in, but without the drum spinning none of my threads could dry. Water-soaked clothes are no friend to anyone.

Six-and-a-half feet of snow over eleven-and-a-half weeks plus four or five recent days of heavy rains have pretty much eroded and erased every trace of stain and sealant from my deck and outdoor furniture. I’m afraid I’m going to walk out there and fall right through thanks to the rot. Water is no friend to wood, especially wood in dire need of care and attention.

Don’t get me started on loose bathroom tiles, water-logged gutters, cold water pipes going to hot water boilers, and the little ones constantly and consistently overturning glasses of water upon rugs, tables, and sofas. My house is drowning in water, and I can barely remember to drink three or four glasses a day, let alone eight.

But – despite any possible hits to this macho image of mine – I must admit my evening bath is perhaps the highlight of my day. 45 minutes in a hot tub with a good book is the key to maintaining sanity. It’s my isolation tank, my portal to other worlds, the recharging of my batteries.

So maybe water isn’t that bad after all. It depends, I guess, on the degree of control we have over it.