My Saturday: finished BSG (Battlestar Galactica for you newbs) after putting if off for weeks after weeks because I knew it would pain me so, proceeded to cry, took a shot of Effen Cucumber vodka at 11am [SPOILER!] in memory of Kara, and then cried some more. Let’s just say that in conjunction with my PMS, it was really a terrible day.
Flash to Sunday/Monday. 2:30am rolls around, and I find myself awoken by a noise. Granted, the windows were open and a fan was going… but this felt different. I woke Joe up “what is that?!” He came to instantly, looking around to identify the noise. Quickly he jumped out of bed to investigate.
Once I got a better ear to the noise, I thought the sink was on, maybe the shower. I thought back to Fringe, which Joe got me hooked on and thought about who could be in our apartment, or what. “Oh lord, it’s coming from upstairs. The ceiling is leaking” he said. I jumped out of bed, threw some clothes on, and told him to call the 24 hour maintenance line. He had to go online to look up the number. In the mean time, I went in the bathroom to see what the damage was. It was coming out from the sprinkler hole, but not the sprinkler itself. I ran back to the bedroom and grabbed a few trash cans to collect what was falling.
Joe got ahold of the pager number and left a message for our maintenance guy. While we waited to get a call back, we surveyed the damage. Turns out I missed a line; it was streaming out from the vent above the toilet too. We arranged a couple of those large moving buckets underneath, which helped catch some of the splash. We also cleared out the closet and other areas adjacent to the bathroom.
An hour later, we heard sirens and made jokes about the police coming to help with how much water was flowing. Then we looked outside and realized they actually did stop in front of our building. We hypothesized about dead bodies until the fire truck left 20 minutes later. No ambulance? Probably everyone is alive.
At about 4:30, after two hours of constant flow, we heard a knock at the door. He had already checked in upstairs and, after finding the door chained shut, had to call the fire truck. Makes sense when you think about it… but pretty scary too to think about the truth that there really could be a dead guy above us. Natural causes, Joe assured me.
I wish I had one of those awesome CSI reenactment videos because that would totally add to my story here. But, this is how I see it happening. Drunk guy upstairs, realllllllly has to use the bathroom. He runs, not wanting to wet himself, into the bathroom. Slipping on contact with the tile (he forgot he was wearing socks!), he slides into the toilet, breaking it in half, and lands in the bathtub. Because he is in the tub, he is guarded from the water erupting form the toilet, and soundly passes out.
Flash to eight hours later and our place has been ripped apart. Baseboards pulled off, carpet in disarray. Doors taken off hinges, and about 20 commercial sized fans blew in each room. This is because not only did the water come through the ceiling, it found its way into the floors and began coming through every crevice it could.
Now we are sitting on a lovely hotel rooftop bar (where we will be staying for the next couple nights) overlooking downtown Minneapolis (Le Meridian – Chambers) and Joe just stole a drink of my martini because I said, in response to him telling me about his fake baseball league players stealing second in a playoff game “oh please tell me more I am so interested.”