Published: May 15, 2008 08:12 pm         

Heartbreak Hotel lookin’ good

My house is broken. And getting brokener by the day. It’s gotten to the point that the boyfriend and I have started wincing at every creak, tiptoeing through the halls, whispering in the kitchen. And while we sit in our crumbling castle, pale-faced, we wonder. How long will it be before the next thing goes wrong? What will it be? And what have we done to merit the wrath of Someone Ultra Important?

It all started about six weeks ago when we were set to barbecue and the propane ran out. The boyfriend changed the tank, but the gas wouldn’t go through the regulator. He bought another Blue Rhino and it, too, wouldn’t work.

The barbecue, apparently, was on strike.

Then my dad came to visit at the beginning of April. As the poor boyfriend hasn’t had a day off since the beginning of March, I decided to put my pop to work and asked him to replace our terrible gold door knobs with some very nice iron ones. He did. But before he left, he told us one of the new door knobs was broken. Showing the boyfriend the door knob turny part, he left the other pieces in the linen closet’s doorknob hole. Somehow, that door closed and the little outy got locked in the inny. Trapping our toilet paper and soap inventory, along with extra sheets and all our towels.

The boyfriend and I dealt with these problems in the ostrich way. Every once in a while, I would lift my head from the sand, blink, and then sink it back in. We washed the same towels, we ate pasta, we used the soap until it was reduced to that waxy husk that doesn’t sud anymore.

Then on Friday, I filled the dishwasher and pressed The Button. But nothing happened — no soothing noise, no run of water. So I, of course, kept pressing The Button to fix the problem. Shockingly, it didn’t work. In fact, that only resulted in me getting that uneasy feeling you get at Office Depot when you’re playing with the phones and there is no dial tone. The machine was empty, just parts. Not alive and responsive like it should be.

On Saturday morning, I had to pull all of the dishes out of the washer and hand wash them. Who knew so many dishes could fit in the washer? Who can believe I used to use bread plates?

After I was filling the sink for the third time, the boyfriend informed me the appliance guy could come Monday. But before that could happen, I needed to host Mother’s Day for my quasi in-laws. Given the status of the washer, I briefly considered asking someone else to host, but then realized I was the only non-Mom of the bunch.

So, surrounded by my hungry quasis, I was in the middle of finishing my baked ziti when suddenly I heard water coming from the basement.

But not water-in-the-pipes water. Waterfall water.

I ran downstairs to see a gush coming from one of the pot lights.

But not a clear gush. A milky gush.

All over our brand-new sea grass rug and cigar chair ottoman.

I ran to get a laundry tub and stuck it under the light. I had just turned my back when water started pouring from a second pot light, all over the couch. The quasis ran down to help, spreading towels everywhere. The boyfriend, who had gotten home from work minutes before, ran up to call a plumber. I moved furniture. It was all very action-packed, but not in a fun, blockbuster way.

When the plumber came, he neatly cut lines into the ceiling with his knife. I smiled up at him, relieved. It appeared he was just going to poke around with the blade until he found the leak.

Then he picked up his hammer and started punching away, walloping the ceiling — pow, pow, pow! — until I could see the skeleton wooden beams inside. It’s a scary thing when you see the bones of your home. Like when you break your arm and the ulna pokes through.

As the plumber beat up our house, wet dry wall flew everywhere and landed in porridge piles. Water continued to weep from the ceiling. I was ready for a good cry myself.

For it was finally happening: The sky was falling.

Since, the boyfriend and I have taken stock and slowly start to bandage up our broken home. While the ceiling continues to sport a gaping wound, the pipe, at least, is fixed. I called about getting a new regulator yesterday. The boyfriend managed to unlock the closet.

But we’re still shell-shocked. And as we huddled together in the porch last night, we looked around suspiciously. Finally satisfied, I put my head back and closed my eyes. I opened them only when I felt a huge flake land on my nose. It came from the ceiling, which had started to peel when we were apparently believing all was well.

Umm, anyone know a reliable painter?



Staff writer Tara Kaprowy can be reached by e-mail at tkaprowy@sentinel-echo.com.