623 East 68th Street

Saturday, July 18th. We're very happy, because yesterday the contractor sent his crew over to clean both new bathrooms. They are now officially finished and usable, and with a few minor accessories we'll be good to go.

First, we unwrap the new towels that we bought over Memorial Day weekend (this is so exciting!). Next we put out the new trash cans. Then I get my tools - including my new high-tech stud-finder - and install the toilet paper holder and robe hook in the master bathroom, then similar items downstairs. We bought a wall-mounted towel warmer for the master bathroom but the contractor advised us to wait until after we get the final electrical inspection before putting it up. So, the only item left to install before having to get ready for our dinner date with my cousins this evening is the towel ring on the wall downstairs.

We agree on the general location and I run the stud-finder along the wall, making pencil marks where it beeps as it indicates where the wood is located. I drill through the sheetrock but the drill keeps going. Hmmm. Moving the drill a few inches to the right after verifying with the finder I drill again. Right through more sheetrock like a hot knife through butter. Very strange - the stud-finder says the wood is right here. I'll just split the difference and drill between the two holes.

The drill zips through the sheetrock and then slows, so obviously I've found the stud. I keep drilling and WHOOSHHHHHHH! Water immediately starts shooting out of the wall as I've clearly gone through a pipe.

Dropping the drill I yell "Oh, s**t!!!" (which is quite surprising, since my usual word of choice is "f**k"). Quickly trying to shove my finger into the hole, the spray is now diverted and shoots all around the room, out the doorway into the family room and, of course, all over me.

Upstairs, Shaw hears me yell and calls down to find out what's wrong. "Turn off the water main!" I shout back, trying to maneuver my finger into actually accomplishing something. "Where is it?" he yells back, as he runs downstairs and sees the geyser spraying from the wall.

Giving up my "Little Dutch Boy" routine, I realize that even I'm not exactly sure where the main valve is since all of the utilities have been moved. But at least I know the general area.

I start running out of the bathroom into the family room and towards the basement door, but the water has made the tile and the wood floors as slippery as you could imagine water would make porcelain tile and varnished wood. I slide into the sofa, then scramble across and into the door which I open and try to rush down the steps. Painted, they're now as slippery from my wet feet as the floors, so I grab onto the banister and descend the steps as quickly as possible without breaking anything. Like my neck. Running across the (now) slippery basement floor I find where the water main enters the house, right next to the new water heater (it happens to be the latest thing - tankless, just a small box containing heating coils that's mounted on the wall. Very energy efficient. But that's not important right now). Frantically looking around I finally locate the valve and manage to shut the friggin' thing off.

Standing there soaking wet and panting, my first thought is that I have to call my cousins and cancel our dinner as we won't be able to shower (I think orderly). Sloshing back up the steps I find Shaw laying out pretty much every towel we own on the family room and bathroom floors, and then see the waterlogged sheetrock in what had been our beautiful new bathroom. I really feel like crying, but there's already so much water around it would only be superfluous.

Shaw must have seen the look on my face because he is being mercifully silent as he begins the mopping-up process. What do we do now? we ask each other after a few moments of absorbing the calamity. I'll call the contractor, hoping I can reach him at 5:30 on a Saturday afternoon.

Thankfully he answers his cell phone. "I'm really sorry to bother you on the weekend," I start out, "but I just did something really stupid." "Nah," he assures me, "you couldn't have." "Well, I'll tell you what I did and you be the judge." I did, and his silence speaks volumes.

"Let me try the plumber and I'll call you right back." I thank him, hang up, and immediately call my cousin to cancel. He's very understanding; he owned a house, too.

About ten minutes later the plumber calls back and says he's at a family party. He'll try to get there later but if he can't he'll come over first thing in the morning. I can't be too picky so I say 'fine.'
About a half hour later he calls back and says he'll be there in twenty minutes. By the time he arrives I'd broken away more of the sheetrock around the hole to determine the extent of the water damage, so he can now see exactly where I committed the fatal stabbing. He takes a small piece of copper, a blowtorch and some solder, and faster than you can say "MacGyver" the pipe is fully healed.

He starts to pack up and looks sheepish. "This isn't part of the job. I have to charge you the emergency rate." Well, we certainly qualify for that. "Not a problem," I say. "How much?" "Eighty five," he replies, almost apologetically. I would have gladly paid much more and thank him profusely. Now all we'll need to do is have the brand-new wall re-built.

And for those of you who may not have gotten the meaning of the title of this entry, it's the address for the fictional home of Lucy and Ricky Ricardo. Because that's exactly where I feel I'm living.