Hi Darling Ones,
There is a fingers-spread, hand-sized wet spot on the kitchen ceiling. I suspect the guest bathroom toilet is leaking some place that I cannot see. There is no water on the floor of the upstairs bathroom so maybe it’s in the under the floor parts? I do not know because I am not a plumber. However, I did schedule an appointment with a plumber and do you know hard it was to discuss this problem without using the phrase “wet spot” six-hundred times? Very hard.
My inner Beavis & Butthead cannot let me say “wet spot” with the accompanying “heh-heh-heh-heh.” I would have thought I would be well past the horny fourteen-year-old everything is a funny sex euphemism stage of my life by this point. Surprise! Wet spot makes me laugh like a goon.
I am not mature enough to be a homeowner, of this I am 100% sure.
I noticed the wet spot yesterday afternoon while I was making Sadness Breakfast Burritos (I was sad, I don’t know why). I told myself I could magical think my way around it for a day, but if it was still wet this morning I would have to do something about it.
Bleh. So now I have a plumber coming over between noon and two on Wednesday. If you never hear from me again after that, the plumber did it! I super hate having strange men in my house when I’m alone. I’m convinced they will murder me for reasons. This is why I had to stop watching a lot of true crime shows.
The irony is, not an hour ago a random dude knocked on my door. I wouldn’t have answered it but we made eye contact through the window and my Minnesota niceness would not allow me to hide after being so clearly seen. Bleh.
So I stood as tall as I could, using all of my six feet and five inches to fill that doorway as I opened it to see what he wanted. Dude was masked up and holding a small container of paint with a paint brush. He explained where he lived and how his neighbor, Sherri, had got some extra paint from the Homeowner’s Association to fix the trim on the front door.
Apparently, when we all got our front doors painted in July, they painted them while they were closed leaving a thin strip of faded, old paint framing the door. I had not noticed this at all because I rarely come in through the front door. Also, I did not really care.
However, since he was so kind and going door to door offering to paint the trim for people, I could not resist. It was the cutest, and also I was way bigger than this guy and if he had murder on his mind I could have for sure taken him.
What followed was the most awkward eight hundred and sixty-eight minutes of my life. That’s how long it felt like it took him to paint the trim. Really, he was here for maybe four minutes total. In that time I learned he is a Vikings fan with a son and at one point had two cats, Woody & Buzz. Sadly, Woody died at the age of sixteen after a lifetime of diabetes. His brother, Buzz, is still going strong and will be seventeen in November.
Being a homeowner is fun,