I found a pile of kid-art in my ‘office’. It obscured most of the guest bed, and, since I was in the middle of one of my cleaning-frenzies, I determined the pile needed to move. To the basement. Where it could reside on top of the mini mountain of kid-art in the professor’s office.
His is a bonafide office because he actually does work in there. I just surf the internet in mine.
As I reached into his office closet to relinquish my wad of papers with scary-looking robots and bizarre mountain-esque shapes, my foot landed in a wet spot.
My thoughts: Weird. Random wet spot? Ugh, those kids….dumping water in their dad’s office.
I felt around to see if it was an isolated spot. It wasn’t. It was the entire closet and the area surrounding it. The kids were off the hook, I guessed. I walked back upstairs and determined my course of action: emails to the professor and our landlord, because I don’t actually know the guy’s phone number. We just email him and he sends people.
I headed back downstairs, since I probably needed to do something about the stuff sitting in the closet. I glanced at the utility area, which holds the furnace and washer and dryer. It was covered in water. Probably about an inch or more of standing water. A Pippi Longstocking Christmas book was lying forlornly in a water bath. I picked it up, hoping to rescue it. ‘Twas water-logged, beyond repair
So I returned to my office to send another email to the professor and the landlord, since the situation was worse than I’d originally thought.
I summoned the boys to go to the basement with me, to clean up their toys, so I could move the already-wet stuff out of the professor’s office. And then we began the process of waiting for Mr. Fix-It.
Several hours later, when I arrived home from the afternoon school-run, a man in brown coveralls showed up. I directed him downstairs. He – politely – removed his shoes. ‘You’re going to need those,’ I told him. He investigated while I attempted to keep the nosy boy-children out of sight. Eventually he walked upstairs and asked me to flush the toilet. Any toilet, I wondered. So I flushed the toilet on the main level.
‘Yep, it’s the sewer!’ he yelled, ‘they’ll send someone over to clean this.’ And, perhaps I’m imagining it in retrospect, but he hightailed it out of my house soon afterwards. When the brown coverall man said ‘they’ll send someone over’ I assumed that meant I’d have to wait. At least an hour. Less than a minute after he’d vacated the premises, another man showed up. And five minutes after that, a woman. It felt like a sting operation. Especially when they began dragging my belongings out onto the deck. And the garage. And hauled blue plastic bags full of who-knows-what onto our snow-covered lawn.
But first, the guy-number-two had to shovel my deck. Are we slobs? Because we shovel our front walk, but we don’t clear the deck or the walkway leading to the garage. So this poor guy had to shovel eight inches of heavy snow from my deck. And clean up who-knows-what in my basement.
Naturally, I made him cookies.