I'm running off Special K and a pot of French Roast after staying up late for the Mississippi State-Kentucky game (Hail State!) and the Dear Son is upstairs taking a shower before school. All seems to be well so far.
Dear Daughter says her brother needs to get out of the shower. Just as I am thinking, "Why are they fighting over the shower when there is another one downstairs?" I look in the dining room, where water is pouring out of the light fixture. And in the living room, where water is coming out of the ceiling vents.
After becoming a single parent, I said on more than one occasion that if Bob Vila showed up on my doorstep, I'd marry him. Because plumbing is totally an area where I am a damsel in distress. I can plunge things and I replaced a flapper on a commode, but otherwise, I am clueless. The Gentleman Friend, who fixed a leaky pipe for me this summer, has been texted. So far, he's pretty good at rescuing.
Upstairs shower is now off limits, and we're thanking God for the downstairs bath and for more blog fodder.
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