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Jul. 14th, 2008 11:17 pmWashing dishes in the bathroom sink is far more difficult than I ever could have imagined.
See, Sunday afternoon my kitchen sink decided to up and shit the bed. The Engineer had just finished washing dishes from my having made pancakes earlier for lunch. I was sitting in the living room, smoking a cigarette and rubbing the belly of my marmalade cat.
"Where's all this water coming from on the floor?" He said.
"Water? Is it bad?"
"Yeah."
I went out into the kitchen and discovered that yes, there is indeed a great quantity of water coming out from under my cabinets and slinking across the floor, much in the manner of the 50s version of the Blob. Only clear. And not, ummm, flesh-eating.
Opening the cabinets showed us that everything underneath had been sprayed with water. Further investigation proved that the connector which attaches the U-bend pipe to the actual drain seems to have fucked off. That's where the water was coming from.
Fuck, says I. I called the apartment building's answering service and put in a plaintive call for our maintenance man to respond, post haste. He calls back several hours later to tell me he will be out Monday afternoon.
Ok. So, Monday morning I load the cats into my bedroom with their food, water, and a litter box. It's not that we're not allowed to have pets, mind you. It's that a few years ago, our former maintenance man had been installing a new air conditioning unit in the living room and left the window wide open for God knows how long. One of our cats, Misty (the one with the hyperthyroid who died last year), got out and was returned a couple hours later. Because of this, I'm paranoid of the combination of maintenance on our apartment and the cats. The cats are quite unhappy about this turn of events, but I turn the air on for them and go to work with dreams of a fully functional kitchen sink dancing in my head.
All day long, I'm snarly about the sink (and about an audit at work which is going to begin on Tuesday morning, but I can't discuss that) and hoping that when I get home, everything will all be well.
Arrival home is uneventful. And by uneventful, I actually mean that one of the cats has successfully pulled a throw rug under my bedroom door and blocked the opening of said door. And the sink hasn't been fixed. It doesn't even look like anyone has been in the apartment, other than my brother. And the only evidence of his existence was junk mail sitting on the kitchen table which was not there this morning.
I called the office again, left another message for the maintenance man. That was at eight-thirty. Now it's eleven-thirty and he hasn't called. I somehow suspect I am going to be woken up at stupid o'clock in the morning either by him calling or him ringing the door bell. Neither of which are going to do wonders for my already oh-so-cheery morning demeanour.
So now I'm sitting at the computer, smoking cigarettes and drinking the last of my diet grapefruit soda when I should be cutting my bangs and getting ready for bed.
Irritation abounds.
See, Sunday afternoon my kitchen sink decided to up and shit the bed. The Engineer had just finished washing dishes from my having made pancakes earlier for lunch. I was sitting in the living room, smoking a cigarette and rubbing the belly of my marmalade cat.
"Where's all this water coming from on the floor?" He said.
"Water? Is it bad?"
"Yeah."
I went out into the kitchen and discovered that yes, there is indeed a great quantity of water coming out from under my cabinets and slinking across the floor, much in the manner of the 50s version of the Blob. Only clear. And not, ummm, flesh-eating.
Opening the cabinets showed us that everything underneath had been sprayed with water. Further investigation proved that the connector which attaches the U-bend pipe to the actual drain seems to have fucked off. That's where the water was coming from.
Fuck, says I. I called the apartment building's answering service and put in a plaintive call for our maintenance man to respond, post haste. He calls back several hours later to tell me he will be out Monday afternoon.
Ok. So, Monday morning I load the cats into my bedroom with their food, water, and a litter box. It's not that we're not allowed to have pets, mind you. It's that a few years ago, our former maintenance man had been installing a new air conditioning unit in the living room and left the window wide open for God knows how long. One of our cats, Misty (the one with the hyperthyroid who died last year), got out and was returned a couple hours later. Because of this, I'm paranoid of the combination of maintenance on our apartment and the cats. The cats are quite unhappy about this turn of events, but I turn the air on for them and go to work with dreams of a fully functional kitchen sink dancing in my head.
All day long, I'm snarly about the sink (and about an audit at work which is going to begin on Tuesday morning, but I can't discuss that) and hoping that when I get home, everything will all be well.
Arrival home is uneventful. And by uneventful, I actually mean that one of the cats has successfully pulled a throw rug under my bedroom door and blocked the opening of said door. And the sink hasn't been fixed. It doesn't even look like anyone has been in the apartment, other than my brother. And the only evidence of his existence was junk mail sitting on the kitchen table which was not there this morning.
I called the office again, left another message for the maintenance man. That was at eight-thirty. Now it's eleven-thirty and he hasn't called. I somehow suspect I am going to be woken up at stupid o'clock in the morning either by him calling or him ringing the door bell. Neither of which are going to do wonders for my already oh-so-cheery morning demeanour.
So now I'm sitting at the computer, smoking cigarettes and drinking the last of my diet grapefruit soda when I should be cutting my bangs and getting ready for bed.
Irritation abounds.
