Roof

Oh boy. Wouldn't you know it. Right before Hurricane Apocalypto, I need a new roof on my house.

It all started back in April. Innocently enough, I called Geico to insure a new car we bought. Not to sound too much like an unpaid advertisement, I love Geico. They cut my auto rates a third when I signed up with them about four years ago, and they are an absolute pleasure to deal with on the phone. And I'm a stickler for good phone manners on behalf of the company I'm giving my money to.

Anyway, they asked if I'd like a free quote for my homeowner's insurance. Batting my eyelashes, I agreed, and spent the next thirty minutes answering esoteric questions about my house. When was the last time the electrical wiring was redone? What type of plumbing do I have, copper or PVC?

Long story short, I got a quote about a hundred bucks a year cheaper than what I was paying. I okayed the deal and thought that was the end of it (my mortgage company pays my homeowner's insurance on a monthly basis).

Then, about two months ago, I get a letter in the mail from my bank freaking out that I have no insurance on my house.

What?

A call to Geico quickly tells me what I suspected. My new insurance company has denied my house. But not for the reason I suspected. It seems I was rejected because it was a two-family dwelling (it isn't) on a non-level lot (again, it isn't).

So the fine young lady on the phone persuaded me to try a second quote with another insurance company that goes through Geico. Another thirty minutes later, and I'm off the phone, with peace of mind thinking I'm now safe and covered.

Then, two days ago, I got a second letter in the mail. This time the cause of my rejection is - shingles are coming off of my roof!

I dropped the letter to the floor. Picture my horrified expression as the camera pans in close while the background recedes, Hitchcock-like, and the violins begin their staccato ree-ree-ree-rees.

I'm screwed.

The first thing that comes to my mind is the Hispanic dude who cleaned out my gutters last Fall. "Senor," he said, "you gonna need a new roof soon."

I smiled and waved and okayed him. "I'll have you guys do it when I need to," I tell him.

Now, it's a reality. I really need a new roof.

And with the Terrorcane blustering into the Tri-State area late this weekend!

Visions of me in the attic, wringing wet towels into pails as water cascades through the rotted wood planks. Or all four of us, me and the girls, plugging holes up there like a family of little Dutch boys, and every hole sprouting two or three more, Hydra-like, every time I stick a finger or a toe or God knows what else to stop it.

But worse of all, what woke me up at 3:55 this a.m. and refused to let me get back to the Land of Nod, worse of all is the vision of me opening up my checkbook (a bat flies out) and finding there's no more cookies in the cookie jar to pay the workmen. "Oh well," they say, packing up their tools, "we'll just take this with us," and they load up my new roof on the back of a flatbed truck and drive away.

Or the alternative: imitating the President of Our United States and signing up for another credit card, which will immediately be maxed out by this roof-thing, which will wind up costing two or three times more than what we even have now to pay for it.

The wife, to her eternal credit, is not the drama queen I am. Quietly and efficiently, she's joined Angie's List and found a whole bunch of reputable roofing companies to call. Most offer discounts of either five or ten percent off the job or $100 coupons. By the time I went out for lunch earlier today, she's already booked appointments with two to come in and inspect our house's hat.

Of course, that's provided we still have one after the Horrorcane hits ...