The Age of Aquarius

I guess the title of my last blog was still imbedded in my head because I was sitting here in my office staring blankly out the window and singing the theme song to Mr. Ed when Jack called and said his flight out of Washington, D. C. had been cancelled. Hopefully he’ll get a later flight today because I don’t want to have to deal with the waterworks, and I’m not talking about crying. For some reason whenever he leaves town, something goes wrong in terms of agua. The main water line has snapped in half twice while he was gone and this is no small thing, because it runs about 1/8th of a mile from the house down to the road. Of course, while I was trying to find someone who would come out over the weekend, we were having torrential downpours and no one wanted to bother. It ended in having the entire acreage dug up while I negotiated between Jack and the water guy about prices and materials. About two years later, it happened again.

This Monday, since I hate Mondays, I gave myself this affirmation: I’m going to get a lot of work done today. I sat down with my little red editing pen. Then I heard the popping sound in the kitchen. Something had snapped in the dishwasher and the kitchen was rapidly becoming a wading pool. I called Jack to find out the best course of action. I had turned off the water under the sink, but apparently missed one valve leading to the dishwasher. In my panic, I couldn’t locate it, possibly because two geriatric dogs were slipping around on the floor behind me. I ran down our nearly vertical, sink-holed drive with my Brittany bristle hair cut [Read “Hair Horrors”] wearing sparkly flip-flops and wielding a humongous pair of pliers—the only pair I could find under pressure in Jack’s scientific garage of horrors.

Kneeling at the street with my hand thrust shoulder deep in the water meter attempting to turn off our water supply, with the wind whistling through the pointy little spears that used to be my hair, I could just hear the neighbors, “What is that nutcase doing now?” I managed to cut the water off, found the mystery valve to the dishwasher, and spent the rest of the morning sopping and mopping. Water did flow through the ceiling to the downstairs bathroom as well, but after getting it all dried up, except a really bad section of damaged carpet in the dining room, I turned the water back on down at the street. Now I have no dishwasher and I’m really starting to appreciate that invention more every day. As I looked around, I realized that when I found the flood, I should have just taken the dogs out and quietly left the house so that insurance could have paid for the subsequently necessary massive remodeling. Oh well, hindsight is 20/20. At least the kitchen floor is for the time being, very clean.