And everything in it is ruined.
I just ventured downstairs to do laundry because I’m trying to get a start on packing, and discovered about two inches of water. And not good water. Bad water. (I used a stock image for this post because it is very not pretty down there, and I don’t want to freak anyone – myself included – out.)
So I sat on my front stoop and cried for a minute (because yes, this kind of thing happens, but please could it not happen at this exact moment in time, when I have about thirty seconds in which to deal with it and yet am not actually permitted to deal with it myself for pretty specific medical reasons, requiring me to actually find someone to help me immediately?), and then decided to…just deal with it.
Like a grown-up (or at least an approximation of one).
Call the Public Works Department, call the plumber, call a housecleaning service to come help me bleach my entire lower level and the figure out what is salveageable. Hope that either Kendrick or I thought to store the box of our son’s special baby clothing up off the floor (remember those tears? That’s what they were about; I can’t even get into that part of our basement to see what’s going on in there yet).
The only good piece of news that I’ve discovered thus far: the problem isn’t actually in my house; it’s a blockage in the the main pipe that runs down the center of the street outside. So the pipe is technically the town’s responsibility to fix. That doesn’t solve the little issue in my basement, though.
I usually like home ownership. It’s exciting, makes me feel proud, et cetera.
Today? Hate it. Want it to go away.
