Waterworld. In my Kitchen.

So in an interesting turn of events, that isn't so much interesting as it is making me wonder what exactly I did to piss off whatever Powers That Be into screwing my live over: last night my kitchen was under two inches of water.

Not even a full week after I have my laptop back and I am able to resume work (able does not necessarily mean I actually did..) and with my bank account limping along and glaring at me with daggers of hate; my washing machine decides to up and die. But seeing as this is my life and nothing is that simple, instead of just dying with some dignity it decided to take my kitchen down with it.

For those of you who haven't read my bio, prior to becoming the fabulous novelist that I am today (he says with a grin hoping you'll believe it), I was working full time as a dog trainer. Because I worked from and out of my home my living room has long since been converted into a kennel for boarding dogs. I still board dogs now and again for regular clients who have been using me for years and tip generously (word to wise: I can totally be bought.) This on top of the fact I have five dogs of my own and Roommate has two (all of them 50 or more pounds, because I'm a masochist apparently) means I do a fair amount of laundry any given week. Last night I decided it was time to strip down my bed and wash my sheets and blankets. I do this on a semi regular basis, but probably not as often as I should.

I throw in my one set of sheets for my queen sized bed (how I have managed to live with only a single set of sheets is probably a question best left for science to answer a hundred years from now) grab a few kennel towels and get the washer going. I head back to my room which also doubles as my work space office (I have the master bedroom in the house, suck it, Roomie!) and go back to pretending to be hard at work (okay okay last night I did actually write.) Forty-five minutes later I wander back out to the kitchen. (Just to clarify here, my "laundry room" is a glorified closet with a washer and dryer in it that is right off the kitchen near the front entrance to the house.) And I a standing in two inches of water.

More importantly, I am standing in two inches of water that is every where. I had this moment of shock and dismay, where I just sort of stood in this giant pool of water that was spreading further and further and just stared at it. Amazed by the fact it existed at all.

The pool of water covered the whole of the kitchen, and into the small dinning room area. The kennel which most people would call a living room (but is only lived in by dogs and their crates hence the title of "kennel") was slowly being ebbed away at by water as well. It was under the stove. The fridge. The dryer. It was so deep that as I stood there staring at it with wide eyed wonder, my shoes soaked through and my feet became wet and cold. Still, I could not fathom how in the hell so much water had arrived inside my house.

This moment of astonishment didn't last long and was quickly followed with a series of curse words that were probably not entirely English in origin. I scrambled on top of the washer and tried turning off the water supply. That did not work. Because I couldn't decide which directly to twist the knobs to in fact shut off the water. So in desperation I yanked the washer's power out of the socket and pulled open the lid (which causes everything in it to stop). Staring down into my washer I can see it is literally full to the brim with soapy, dirty water and my sheets and blankets are floating in the water completely innocent.

I am at this point in this adventure, completely at a loss as to what to do. Normally when something floods you go "Oh crap!" and grab all the towels and soak it up. The problem with this flood was it was so vast I did not have even remotely enough towels to even begin soaking it up. In fact if I had simply started putting downs down on the ground it would have been pointless. Like trying to mop up lake eerie with some Bounty (okay not that bad, but you get the idea.) So I just stood there, feet soaking wet (which I'm sure was an excellent thing to put my body through while still recovering from a plague), staring at everything with what amounted to my mouth open and noises of dumbfounded-ness  sputtering on my lips.

After several moments of doing my best impersonation of a car that won't start, I finally pulled my phone out of my back pocket and called the only person I could think of who might have answers: Steve.

Steve is a very good friend of mine. We once upon a time were some what romantically involved. When were both young and stupid. We have recently reconnected and spend a lot of our time doing dates-that-aren't-dates. Meaning we do everything one would do on a date, but we declare it not-a-date. It's a some what complicated relationship in which we are quite clearly very good for one another, but neither of us are keen on being invested in anything that could be construed in anyway shape or form as serious. But the most important thing about Steve (other then the fact he is kind of super hot) is that he is a handy man.

Steve answers the phone with a delighted: "Dean!"

And I start in a rush: "Hey! Look I know your facebook status said you weren't having a swell day, but can I one up you right now and beg for your help?"

He gets noticably more calm and I can't hear the smile in his voice any more. "Yeah sure, man, what's wrong?"

"My washer flooded my house and I'm standing in two inches of water and I have no freaking clue what I am supposed to do about any of it. Help!" I say it all in a single rush of air, so fast I barely make any sense even to myself.

"Well start getting the water cleaned up and I will be there soon as I can!" He hangs up with out bothering to ask what I need, or anything else for that matter.

I feel much better realizing that help is coming. Which lasts about half a second before I realize I have to start getting this mess cleaned up and I don't have the first clue where to start. I knew what needed to be done, but the task was daunting, I couldn't fathom at which end to start. After a while of sloshing around in a tiny circle of "ahh!" "hmm" "nerr" and "UGH!" I picked up a broom, opened the front door and started sweeping.

That's right. I started sweeping water out of my house through the front door. This caused a considerable amount of splashing to go about, but it was surprisingly effective. All those years I worked in dog kennels before becoming a full time private trainer, had taught me well about how to move large bodies of water during clean up. I muttered to myself about the injustice of the world and went about getting a significant sum of the water out into the great outdoors and NOT inches deep in my kitchen.

Steve arrived just as I concocted a genius plan involving a small hose, putting to use my powers of suction (yes you were supposed to go there with that comment) and gravity to drain the water that was sitting in the washer. Because I knew he was going to have to move the washer to look at it fully and see what exactly went wrong (other then everything, which was what I had determined was the problem.)  He came into my house and looked around and looked at me wet from the ankle down with the door wide open on a winter day and just smiled in that endearing way he has.

"So your house really did flood." He says offering me a warm hug and a soothing pat on the back.

"I told you!" I say, eying him and mentally just daring him to doubt me again.

"Yeah but I had no idea it would be this bad. Good move on the hose by the way." He helped me lay down some towels around the areas that had thinned out further in the house and then pulled out the washer once it was drained.

In a bold move he determined nothing was wrong. So we tried it again, chalking it up to having over flowed due to being over filled. Cue my panicked reaction when it began flooding the house again. I shrieked in what I assure you was a very manly fashion that it had to be stopped. I also jumped around in a circle waving my arms frantically. It was all very butch, I promise.

Steve cut the water and looked at me in bewilderment. In a sweeping declaration I announced the Washer was dead to me, and I was buying a new one. He laughed and helped me resume sweeping water out of the house. There was a lot of talk about how none of this cold and wet was probably any good for the cold I had been suffering the last week. And one incident of the two of us chasing my one eyed cat, Hawkeye, around the undercarriage of my truck after he escaped from the house. But eventually the water was under control, though every step I took was met with a SQUISH sound from soaked towels and blankets under my feet.

Oh did I forget to mention that? Yeah I ran out of towels pretty quickly. So I had to resort to blankets. And the sheets I had been intending to wash in the first place? They were soaked and worthless. The end result was when I eventually got things together was there was a large pile of soping wet towels and blankets in the front of my house. Not the sight, I assure you, I wanted my minimal number of neighbors to see. Or the client who came by to drop off their dog. I explained I was hapless and washerless after it flooded my house. They were understanding. I was annoyed.

I spent the night in a sleeping bag on my bed. I didn't sleep much because I spent the whole night freaking out in an OCD kind of way about the sheer volume of WET that was all over my house. I spent most of the day pacing the house unable to do anything to sort it out because the new washer (ordered last night shortly after I declared the former occupant of the job deceased) didn't arrive until this evening. Roommate had to multiple times steer me back to work, or out to do something with my time. Because I was driving every occupant of the house crazy with my innane pacing. I couldn't began to put my house back in order until the wash could be done.

I have now done three loads of laundry. And have plenty more to go, I assure you. But my sheets are back on my bed. And I will be able to get some sleep tonight. Maybe. There is still a significant amount of washing to be done...

This is my life. As a good friend once said to me "Man, you don't just do things. You have freaking adventures." She isn't wrong.