It was a craptastic day in the neighborhood, people.
Last night, the battery in my smoke alarm decided to suffer a slow and painful death beginning at 3:30am. After about the 10th high-pitched beep, I got up to put it (and me) out of it’s misery, only to discover that the tile floor outside our bedroom door was covered in water.
(Hi. I’m over flooded basements. That’s why we are renters now.)
Picture me, all fucking crazy looking, only nominally conscious, and desperate to find a relationship between the 1/2 inch of standing water on the floor and the dying smoke alarm.
No relationship. They were two entirely separate ways that the gods were attempting to prevent me from getting a full night’s sleep. Because the fact that no small child has woken up wet yet this week can possibly go unnoticed.
So, I did what anyone in my fragile state would’ve done. I woke up my husband.
Together we half-heartedly soaked up the water and went back to sleep.
(And I by sleep I mean a series of mini panic attacks having to do with various work-related bullshit, childcare juggling and of course, the fact that a portion of the apartment we moved into just two short months ago is now submerged.)
At 6:30, when the alarm finally put an end to the madness, we found that the water we’d disposed of in our 3:30 stupor was back.
It seemed to be seeping up from the ground.
No. I’m not shitting you.
The getting ready part of this morning is a blur. It involved being very careful on the very slippery wet tile floor, cold French toast sticks, and at least one monochromatic outfit. It also involved leaving the apartment and learning that guess what? It’s raining! Which is sheer awesomeness when all your umbrellas are being stored in your car that your husband took, and you have to walk with two small children uphill for several blocks to catch a bus.
Ice cream and wine for dinner tonight?
Don’t mind if I do.