I’ve been up since 4:30 am, when I heard the stream of water begin to run on the loft floor. The roofers covered the holes very well when they removed the skylights for work yesterday, but the spot that began seriously leaking while Bekah was visiting, let go even more. We have huge blisters running along the ceiling. I’ve managed to contain it with one bucket, two dishpans, and a large towel. Tonight we’ll be removing the blisters from the ceiling, hopefully so the plaster can dry. I’m thinking of it like peeling sunburn.
Of course, a new leak sprung, right down between the frame and the trim of the window next to my co-worker's desk. It gathered in the Roman style gathers of the curtain, and spattered everywhere when he pulled it away from the glass to see what was happening.
Now the sun is out (it wasn’t supposed to go away until Thursday – so much for all that expensive Doppler weather crap), and the men continue to work on the roof – tromping, dropping, heaving. I feel as though I am under siege, and if my car weren’t blocked in the garage, I would be OUT OF HERE. I’ve given serious consideration to becoming incompetent; to succumbing to the helpless-female-vapors and telling my husband he must take care of me, me, me, I’m just a delicate flower. Perhaps a complete melt-down and stay in some clean hospital room is in order. But really, how can I complain, when I’m the one who KNEW we needed a new roof, and was proven correct, unfortunately.
But why, why do they haul those bundles of shingles all the way up the ladder on their shoulders, these big, hearty tattooed men, and then drop them from shoulder height? The walls rattle, things fall off shelves, the pictures are crooked, and then it gets quiet, and suddenly, BLAM! And they drop more, the walls shudder, and I look for a foot sticking through the ceiling.
The know-it-all neighbor paces the property line. The same man who told me to stop feeding the geese because it’s illegal and encouraging them to stay will cause them to eat all my fish (I KNOW geese don’t eat fish – the ducks might, but the geese don’t). He paces the line, wanting to snoop, wanting to critique, and I stare out the window at him, daring him to say or do one negative thing, because I’m about to rip off my hormone patch and burst out there and tell him to mind his own business or I’ll rip out his outdoor telephone ringer that makes me feel like I’m living next door to a used car lot. This is the same man who, in his big white Hummer, cut me off TWICE in a two block stretch on the way to the bank. He still doesn’t know he cut off his own neighbor. Who needs a Hummer in the city anyway? (OK - I have to edit this to admit that he was actually admiring the work, and wants an estimate from our roofers, and since the noise has stopped, I'm a little calmer. However, he's still talks down to me, and acts like he knows everything.)
I’ve contemplated a trip to the treehouse, but that is directly under where they are working; saws, hammers, radio set to 1980s rock, other torture devices. It is also directly next to the closet I had to empty of all the fabric, so they could use the access door to the attic. The guest room is now filled with teetering stacks of flat-fold fabrics, the door to the closet is open, the protective plastic has been removed from the access door – and they just informed me that they decided to go in by rolling back the roof boards instead. Did I mention they have to get in there to strap on the chimney, which has pulled away from the house? That’s on the old part of the house – over 100 years old and still sporting the original roof boards – clean and dry and intact. The roof of the new addition on the house, built about 1980, has modern plywood sheathing which, along the entire northern edge, has rotted about two feet back from the edge.
For the past few days, my horoscope has read something along the lines of a pleasant financial surprise. I haven’t won the lottery, and the price on the roof repairs keeps going up. Perhaps if I need to take out a home improvement loan, they’ll say yes??
Hugs to all, from the soon-to-be-incarcerated me.