So. This happened. And was...awesome.
"This" is the result of all that snow and ice on our roof finally starting to melt. Into our house. I repeat: AWESOME.
I always thought a leaky roof would look like it did in cartoons -- random slow drips coming out of the ceiling, to be caught with strategically-placed buckets in the middle of the room. Ours is more like a lovely cascading waterfall effect pouring through the paint in the window frame, as the wall above puckers and swells, and suddenly it's like, HOORAY! The whole side of this room is all squishy. How fucking cozy.
I won't bore you with all the repair details, except to offer this nugget of advice: If you ever need to file a disaster claim with your homeowner's insurance, do yourself a favor and try not to time it after any kind of...I dunno...ACTUAL DISASTER. Particularly a disaster that happened to affect more than say, four other people.
(CALL ME BACK, STATE FARM. I AM RUNNING OUT OF FRESH TOWELS. ALSO: PATIENCE.)
Oh! Just one more bit of wisdom: If you are among the millions of unemployed who might be all, prostitution isn't sounding so bad anymore, you may be interested to hear just how much money I had to pay some guy to get up on my roof and remove the rest of the snow. Which he did this morning, with a snow shovel and a goddamned hammer. Do you yourself own a snow shovel and a goddamned hammer? Then consider a career in post-snowpocalyptic highway robbery today! (After he finished our roof a woman came running across the street in her bathrobe shrieking HOW MUCH HOW MUCH? He then quoted a price $100 more than what we paid, which was already $100 more than what we were quoted over the phone yesterday. It's a real growth industry!)
So enough about my stupid fucking roof. That is stupid. Let's talk about the Olympics.
I love the Olympics. I watch every blessed minute of the coverage, except for the Profiles In Olympic Courage fluff pieces, about how anyone can become an Olympic champion provided they dedicate themselves to a sport full-time by the age of four, along with other benefits like a shitload of money and a parent who JUST SO HAPPENS to be a two-time Olympic champion in the same sport WHAT ARE THE ODDS.
Yeah, those things. That's when I get up for more snacks.
But anyway, I've discovered I've got a bit of anxiety problem on behalf of the athletes. I'm not so worried about falls and crashes -- I don't like those, but you know, they happen and stuff. No, I am absolutely petrified that one of the following things will happen:
1. An athlete will neglect to put on their goggles, helmet or other safety gear before starting down a course.
It FLIPS. ME. OUT. to see them there, all poised and ready to go, with their goggles or face mask on top of their helmet. (And don't even get me started on the people who wait until the last minute to attach a dangling helmet chin strap put it on put it on PUT IT ON.) I am seriously a crazy bundle of nerves for them, twitching and writhing and itching at myself because oh my God, they must be thinking of a million other things, they're totally going to forget their goggles! I would totally forget my goggles! Oh Jesus, is there someone there reminding them? Because I would need someone there to remind me. I would probably hire a special full-time safety-equipment check person. I wonder if anyone would hire me to that? Because I would be good at that job. Hell, I would do it for free because PUT ON YOUR GOGGLES HOLY MOTHER OF GOD.
The minute the athlete successfully puts on their goggles or fastens their helmet, I am immediately calmed and no longer concerned about them in the slightest. Go ahead and wipe out on those moguls, baby. You're all good.
2. A skier or snowboarder won't be able to stop at the bottom of the course and will crash into the little boundary fence-thing.
Yes, because after demonstrating unparalleled skill on an amazingly difficult hill, an Olympic athlete is TOTALLY going to be all, "OH MY GOD, I FORGOT TO LEARN HOW TO STOP! HALP!" Yes, I am probably projecting my own terrible skiing experiences on them. One of which may or may not involve running over a seven-year-old. Who was standing still. Possibly inside the lodge. Whatever. You cannot prove a thing.