My ongoing apocalypse

There should be a limit to the duration of apocalypses. The Mayan apocalypse, which I calculated to have begun on October 10, 2012, should have expired today. Instead, the Mayan apocalypse is still going strong.

After I came home from work, my daughter informed me that water was dripping from the laundry room ceiling. I went down and looked and, indeed, water was dripping from the laundry room ceiling. I tried to guess what item upstairs was leaking, but I did not succeed. There are two bathrooms roughly over the laundry room, containing a bathtub, a shower stall, two toilets, and three sinks. I checked under the sinks and saw no water, so that left the other four possible sources.

My first guess was the wax seal under the toilet. I replaced one of those before, and it was not a fun job. Since I didn’t know for sure that was the problem—nor which toilet—I decided to call a professional. I expected to make an appointment for someone to come in the morning, but the firm I called said they could send someone this evening.

The plumber arrived. He looked at the dripping water. He explored the bathrooms, checking under the sinks. Then he said, with an apologetic smile, “I’m going to have to cut a hole in the ceiling to see where the water is coming from. Sorry—I won’t be able to fix it afterward. You’ll have to bring someone else in.” I gave permission for the hole, and he brought in his ladder, his flashlight, and his saw. Taking out a big panel of sheetrock, he was able to look up and see that somewhere in the pipes above was a leak, but he still wasn’t sure where.

When this house was built (roughly 1980), the designers didn’t consider the possibility that a plumber might ever need to work on its fixtures. Since the two bathrooms share a wall, they brought the pipes up through the wall and left no access to them. So the plumber and I had to empty the cabinet under the sink that is across from the wall to the bathtub. Then he cut a hole in the sheetrock there. As he was cutting, he said, “I know I found the leak—this sheetrock’s wet.” He had to enlarge the hole twice, but he finally located the leaking pipe.

As is always the case with this house, he did not have the kind of fitting he needed for this repair. So he had to run out to the hardware store for the part. Every professional who has come to fix something in this house has needed to go somewhere for extra parts; it seems as though every feature of the house is eccentric. The dishwasher is not under the sink; it is around the cabinet corner from the sink. When a new dishwasher was installed, the installers had to run out for a longer line. The kitchen was designed for a drop-in oven and stove. Hardly anyone makes those any more, and the few that can be found are more expensive—even double the same size oven in a standard model. We were blessed with an installer who was able and willing to cut out the extra boards so a standard oven could go into the space.

He got the part installed and checked to see that everything was working properly. I had to pay him, of course, and I’ll have to pay someone else to fix the holes he made. But that’s one thing about an apocalypse—nobody ever said they would be cheap. J.