"Do you hear water running?"
"I do...wait, is it the dishwasher?"
"Yeah, probably just the dishwasher."
(NOTE TO SELVES OF OH, 18 OR SO HOURS AGO: It's never just the dishwasher. Fool-ass fools.)
Some time after this conversation (which was mostly fueled by our joint desire to not get up off the couch), Ezra entered the room.
"Some water spilled on the floor in the basement."
Jason and I raised our eyebrows at him, not because we wanted further explanation — oh no, that might result in us hearing something that required our presence or supervision — but because that's our parenting code for "THAT SOUNDS LIKE A PROBLEM YOU KNOW HOW TO SOLVE YOURSELF, YOUNG MAN."
Ezra smiled blankly at us for a second before saying, "I know, I'll get a towel!"
YES. YOU GO DO THAT, SON.
He wandered into the kitchen, grabbed a single dishtowel and went on his merry, problem-solving way.
I don't know exactly how much time passed between this moment and the moment where I suddenly realized Jason was screaming bloody murder about towels, but it was probably a few levels of Candy Crush, making all my Sims use the toilet, and at least one Thatz Not Okay.
But while Jason's tone and urgency was definitely on par with someone who was about to homebirth an old-time-y baby (TOWELS! I NEED TOWELS! BOIL SOME WATER! GET THE STRING AND SCISSORS!), I have to tell you that my husband — my rock, my best friend, the love of my life — tends to kinda get a case of the dramzzz when it comes to stuff going wrong in the house. Particularly water-related things. Water is always lurking, ready to rot our woodwork and flood our drywall with mold. An overflowing toilet is basically six seconds away from causing major structural damage. FACT.
In other words, I sighed, got up off the couch, wandered upstairs and halfheartedly pulled two or three beach towels out of the linen closet.
I passed Jason on my way down to the basement — at least I think it was him; he was more of a brownish blur — and he looked at my sad little bundle of towels and informed me that wasn't going to be enough. We were gonna need ALL THE TOWELS.
I figured the toilet had clogged, or maybe one of the kids made a mess washing their hands. Worst case, a ceiling leak from the first-floor bathroom. And so when I finally got to the (completely dry, nigh, near spotless) basement powder room, I stood there for a minute, thoroughly confused. Where...water? Is? Bwuh?
I suddenly remembered our conversation about the dishwasher and had a flashback to THIS INCIDENT and OMG. I ran into the playroom and zeroed in on the ceiling and that's when I realized I was standing in two inches of water.
So. Okay. Our townhouse was built in the late 1970s, and every single unit has a dry bar in the basement. Which sounds so much swankier than it is. Because it's really just a cheap cabinet topped with a cheap countertop...and a tiny, useless little sink. I guess it was there so the menfolk who were party-downing in the knotty-pine basement — drinkin' and shootin' pool and fillin' the poorly-circulated underground room up with cigar smoke — could wash their whisky glasses or something? While the ladies presumably stayed upstairs playing bridge in the family room? (While the living room sat empty and covered in plastic, natch.)
Anyway, I have never understood the point of the dry bar, and so for the most part it sits completely forgotten about. There are some board games and puzzles in the cabinet, along with a yoga mat, and the countertop is usually cluttered with Toys That Someone Has Lost Access To Because Someone Turned It Into A Weapon. I have used the sink exactly once — during our home inspection, just to make sure it worked and we weren't being ripped off with a non-functional tiny sink that MAYBE SOMEDAY I might choose to wash my hands in, because the actual full-sized sink in the powder room is like, seven whole feet away.
Point is: Ike had climbed up, put a tiny sink stopper in the teeny drain, turned on the wee faucet full blast and flooded the entire fucking basement in a span of about 20 minutes.
(I didn't even know the sink HAD a sink stopper, for the record. Accessories! What a selling point! Still would have preferred finding a hollow wall full of doubloons, however.)
I wish I could have gotten some pictures, just so y'all would have no choice to believe me that SERIOUSLY, it was literally flooded wall to wall to wall, with Thomas trains and plastic tomato slices floating towards the slanty sides of our house, all OH THE HUMANITY. But since Jason informed me that we probably only had 32 seconds to soak up all the water before the laminate floor buckled and broke and sent us all tumbling into a swamp of sacred burial ground, I decided not to waste any time documenting the occasion. Baby's first homeowners' insurance claim, yaaaaaaay!
We really did need all of the towels, by the way. All the good towels; all the guest towels. The kids' towels, the beach towels, the back-up beach towels, the dinky little hand towels and a bunch of super-old gross towels that I don't even know why I'm holding onto, other than for moments like this. Four laundry loads of towels so far, with one more to go.
We cranked up the dehumidifier, sent everyone to bed because DONE WITH YOU, ALL OF YOU, and opened a bottle of wine. Everything seems fine and dry this morning, though I think Jason will feel better if he paces back and forth checking for new creaks or squeaks or I don't know FOUR HUNDRED MILLION MORE TIMES.
This one, by the way.
THIS ONE. IS GOOD THING IS CUTE.