Seriously. . . did we deserve this?

I got up early this morning, earlier than I had planned. I think I was excited about driving to the land of horse racing for a visit with one of my closest, perhaps my closest, friends. I sat in the chair in the living room, deciding to enjoy a few minutes by the tree.

I heard a tap, another tap and a third tap. I had hoped it was one of the cats knocking at something they weren't supposed to, but when I turned on the light and spied my little gray cat looking at the ceiling and a spot on the carpet, I knew that indeed Ike wasn't knocking a Hershey's kiss around under the couch. We had a leak, a bonafide leak in the center of our living room ceiling.

Not really wanting to face facts, I got a step ladder and decided to feel for myself. Yep, a leak. I then weighed my options, decided I needed a second opinion and woke up my beloved.

He confirmed. Yep a leak. And we used our amateur investigative skills (absorbed by watching multiple episodes of "Monk" and "The Hardy Boys") and decided we had not a clue where the water was coming from.

And we sat on the couch again and moaned. It was 5:15 a.m. There was no one to call. I placed a bucket beneath the leak. Cynical went to bed. I watched the news until 7.

I felt 7 a.m. was a respectable time to call my friend and commence crying and whining. (And I did cry, puff up and snot through an entire conversation.)

And now my day won't be filled with giggles, leisurely lunches where waitresses bring me multiple Diet Cokes or even a yarn shop stop. I will, instead, sit dutifully in my chair monitoring the slow drip of a leak into a big blue bucket until our Mr. Fix-It comes to at least stop the leak until a roofer can come, solve our problems and drain our bank accounts.