So, where was I? Oh yes, I was telling you about my water-spurting heat-pump.
The repairman returned yesterday to fix the problem. Obviously, the drain is not draining. I suspected a clog somewhere in the line. The repairman’s solution to this problem was to jam a plug of silicone into the overflow drain hole. (He couldn’t find a clog anywhere.) I said, “Well, what happens now if the drain is clogged and the water overflows?” “Oh,” he said, “The water will just flow out from all sides of the unit,” as if that would somehow be better.
Okay, though. His solution made no sense, but I foolishly accepted his shaky explanation that the water came out of the overflow hole because it shouldn’t have been an open hole anyway (it has been open for 9 years, however and I’ve never had this problem) and how in most homes, it’s capped off.
Did I mention that my husband came home and switched vehicles because an indicator light came on in the van? After paging through the manual, I discovered that a tire is under-inflated. Minor in the scheme of things, but annoying nonetheless.
I did not want to go to the pool yesterday . . . I feel like there is so much I need to do around house (housework, for instance, or cooking dinner) and how can I do that while sitting at the pool? But a mom called me and asked if my kids were going and they wanted to go and so I took them so they could play with her kids. Because I’m nice like that.
We came home to discover my new vacuum had arrived. (Ordered through Amazon with gift certificates and free shipping!) I was so thrilled that I set about vacuuming immediately. I was just finishing up when I looked up at the ceiling in the family room and said to myself, “Self, that spot sure looks weird. I wonder if it’s wet?” Then, I stood on the child-sized rocker, pressed on the spot and punched a three-inch hole into the ceiling with my fingers. Yes, it was wet.
My husband walked in and I escorted him over to see the hole in the ceiling. Lucky for us, we have friends who can cope with these sorts of situations, so he called Mark. Soon, I was answering Mark’s questions. He told me, “Have your husband cut a hole from ceiling joist to ceiling joist,” and I had to interrupt to inform him that not only do we not have a saw, we don’t know what a ceiling joist is.
He sent over his capable, twentysomething son to cut a hole in my ceiling. Josh felt around and said it felt like the drain pipe from the shower was dripping. I said, “Is that a job for a plumber?” with dread because I remember the last time the plumber came (bye-bye four hundred and fifty dollars), but Josh said, “No, it’s probably a dad job.”
So, fine. Not really, but what can you do?
Fast-forward an hour or two and I’m riding my exercise bike. “Mom!” a voice calls from downstairs.
“WHAT?!” I say.
“Mom, you’ve got to see this!”
“See what?” I say.
“Water is coming out from the radiator.” (That makes me laugh that he calls it a “radiator” because I have no idea where he got that term.)
I run downstairs, find a waterfall cascading from all sides of my heat pump. I rush to the laundry room to find a towel, but of course, for once, I have finished washing, drying and putting away all the towels and so none are handy. I grab for old cloth diapers, yell at the kids to find towels, and panic, but only a little. I realize that the stupid little silicone plug needs to come out so the water can drain from one place, not from all over. I dig it out with my fingertips and water shoots out as if I’d turned on the tap. I call for a container while grabbing two glasses sitting on a nearby coffee-table. (All this excitement is happening in the twin boys’ room, which is in the space that used to be a garage years and years ago.)
My son returns with a big Rubbermaid container and the water is now contained.
Except for the big puddle on the floor, which has yet again seeped into the carpet.
1) Flooding heat pump with mysterious clog lurking in its bowels.
2) Hole in ceiling caused by leaking shower.
3) Screaming 4-year old.
4) Indicator light on in van.
It could be worse. So I’m not complaining, mind you. I’m just enumerating.