So a few months ago, I noticed a eensy, weensy crack in the bathroom ceiling. Not much of a big thing really. So I ignored it.

Then, one day on the loo, I felt something drip on my head. Drip, drip, drip. Water was leaking out of a much wider crack in the bathroom ceiling. Right onto my freshly washed hair. There is NOTHING I hate more than getting clean hair dirty. I’m the type of girl who washes her hair twice a week max. Clean hair is a big deal. So, these drips were kind of really irritating. (I hope it was just water leaking out).

Last week, I stared up at the plaster. Hmm….was that crack bigger? Oh man, yes it was. Suddenly, over the course of a few days, the crack grew a canyon and it was raining in the bathroom.  Alright, maybe I’m exaggerating a bit, but a few more rounds of drips and I seriously was about to shoot somebody. I was also afraid the entire ceiling was going to buckle in and cave down on me. We originally didn’t want to have anything done while we were here in this apartment because it is such a hassle. I mean, we live here!

But this was untenable. Regardless of any tentative future plans of moving out, M made the call. Our building manager had workmen come while we were at work. The kitties were safely sequestered in the bedroom so they wouldn’t annoy the men. I thought I was going to have a new ceiling in the bathroom when I came home.

Instead, I came home to this.

Everything in the bathroom was on the console table. There was a huge black tarp covering the bathroom ceiling. I gingerly crept into the apartment, eyes huge and fingers gripped tight. The washstand was broken. I heard a noise above me and the tarp did a weird sucky-in-and-out thing like it was breathing on me. I nearly lost it.

Then I opened the medicine cabinet, saw the dirt and grit all over my face cream and body oil. Oh my holy moly, I was about to freak out. Then I saw it. Bits of plaster and ceiling crap IN. MY. HAIRBRUSH. That was it.

I gently shut the mirror and backed away going “Ah. Ah. AH!”

I huddled in a corner of the couch watching “My 600 Pound Mom” on DVR until M got home. He took one look at my shell-shocked face and kindly cleaned up the bathroom and put everything back in. He really is the best. Apparently, the workmen have to come back and finish things up on Monday and Tuesday. Ugh. So annoying. This is the price you pay for living in an adorably old, itty bitty, and quaint San Francisco downtown apartment.

xoxo,

Jenn