At 4:04pm, Friday, November 4, 2005, I received a phone call from my roommate that means something entirely different now than what she intended:
"The apartment is flooding."
I live in bumpy Arlington, Virginia, above sea level, and on the side of a steep hill that many well-conditioned cyclists can't climb without a dismount-and-stroll to the top. But, logic failing, I nonetheless imagined New Orleans-style flooding, with Jayme chopping through her bedroom ceiling with an axe (and probably scaring the piss out of the folks who live above us) to avoid the advancing tide.
However, it was merely a broken or a blocked pipe - the plumber couldn't tell - and it overflowed water out from a joint and through the drywall over our dining room's ceiling. Messy and wet - good things in sex; bad for a dining room.
Here's what kills me. Obviously, a pipe is broken/blocked somewhere. The ceiling is dripping, and you just don't see that everyday. However, the plumber isn't allowed to fix the pipe because our property management company "didn't give him permission to" chop out the bad pipe and the ruined drywall.
How in the HELL else do you propose fixing the pipe, slim? Tearing through the bedroom from above? Knocking out my next-door neighbors' walls and repairing it from the side. Oompa-Loompas?
Besides...the drywall is already dripping water. There's a hole in it already. Another hole ain't gonna ruin it anymore than it already is.
Asshats. Every single last one of them.