No, this isn't a cautionary tale about a bad BBBJNQNSCIM experience. I haven't been very good about responding to messages over the last few days, and I wanted to apologize and explain why. It is funny....NOW, not so much at the time.
I'm sitting in my big, round tub a few days ago, having just finished lathering up hair and body, and I'm groping blind to turn on the water to rinse, and BLAMMO, the cold water handle goes flying off like a rocket to Mars! I have a geyser erupting full force, Old Faithful gone wild, hitting the ceiling and creating a mushroom cloud of water raining down on everything. I'm naked, screaming (not in a OH-MY-GOD-DON'T-STOP way) while I scramble to to find the broken handle, attempt to wedge it back on, thereby diverting a forceful stream of fluid I'm NOT used to getting on a regular basis into my mouth, choking me, wet chihuahuas are wailing, and I realize the only way I'm going to stop the gusher is to turn off the water at the main.
So with soap suds in my eyes and other places I wasn't happy about, I grab the first thing I see to cover up with, a doggy blanket that leaves nearly half of me still Mother Nature nude, snatch a pair of pliers from my craft drawer, run outside to my front yard, outside my gate, and get to my knees in front of (not an appreciative gentleman, damn it to Hades) the water meter on the street. I'm cursing like an inebriated sailor (incoherently and swaying precariously), trying to hang onto the blanket with one hand and handle a tool I'm NOT used to handling on a regular basis, my pale behind stuck up in the air exposing me like a Whitetail deer, while I try to pry the lid off the meter box. I FINALLY get it open and turn the valve to stop the water. I turn around to see the postman nearly hit a tree in a fit of laughter. God knows what the neighbors are doing; calling 911 to report a streaker? (No doubt they already think me an odd duck, but now they're SURE of it.)
I stagger back inside and there's water spreading like a tiny tidal wave across the floor, and of course everything in my bathroom and a good portion of my adjoining closet is completely soaked. I start tossing towels and clothes and pillows and birth control sponges and tampons and whatever the Hell else I can find down to dam the flow, call some friends and beg them to come ASAP (normally I DON'T rush gentlemen, ya know) and bring galoshes and plumbing supplies. I call a neighbor and ask if I can rinse off and stumble across the street wearing nothing but a soapy wet t-shirt and panties. (Didn't thrill the old lady at all, btw.)
I have to leave my poor buddies to sop up most of the mess as I have to go to a dinner date whether I want to or not as I figure I'll need the money even MORE now for repairs. (And it pretty much takes an alien invasion or the Black Plague to make me cancel a commitment. If nothing else, I'm dependable.) I must thank that gentleman for being particularly understanding and helping me forget all about Lake Fancy back at the house. (Let's just say he took me jet skiing on land.)
Anyway, the ensuing days have been a blur of cleaning, dragging furniture out of the way, pulling things from my wardrobe (including all of my lingerie, sexy dresses, and much of my impressive shoe collection) and linen closet (every sheet and blanket in the house was dripping, and of course every towel) and dumping them on the front porch and fence rails to dry. Looks like a Redneck Victoria's Secret yard sale.
The chihuahuas are so traumatized that they won't enter the bathroom or even get in their dried-out puppy bed. I guess seeing it float out of the closet like a dinghy with some ghostly pilot spooked them. (I kept the bed in there they could retreat to when I wasn't home and storms came through. Made them feel like they had a secure hidey hole, but not anymore, I fear.) Every time the poor pups hear running water now they shake like detoxing alcoholics in an earthquake. (And I thought they were nervous dogs before? I'm buying them canine straight jackets for holiday wear this year.) My washing machine and clothes dryer will probably go on strike any minute as I'm running them 24-7 like a nickel laundromat. Instead of surround sound stereo, the melodious hum of fans and a humidifier have filled my house this weekend.
I've managed to somehow keep all my previously made Fancy 3rd anniversary engagements during this mini-catastrophe, and have been up from sunrise to near or past 2 a.m. every night since LAST Monday. I have missed returning some messages unless the fellow had a pre-scheduled date or was involved in the clean-up and recovery effort. I am SO sorry, but if you don't understand, or at least grin about this, you're not the kind of guy I'd want to see anyway. (Seriously, thanks for your patience.)
Today I'm going out to the lake with a vat of fried chicken, a jumbo bottle of Jameson, and an even bigger bottle of sunscreen Nova 5000, and will float on a body of water not located in my home. I'm turning off my phone and computer. Call me tomorrow.