My roof is leaking.
This has been a constant problem with this house; a month after we moved in, we went on vacation and returned to find B.'s bedroom ceiling lying in chunks all over the bedroom floor. Since then, we had it patched, re-patched and re-patched again, as well as re-sealed. Still: drip-drip-drip in the back bedroom.
It's not cool. And the worst thing is that we just can't get anyone to come fix it. Oh, they'll say that they'll come, but then the appointed time arrives and...no guy. I guess Washington is so awash in construction money that a little roof repair just doesn't rank. Meanwhile, we rush home every time we smell moisture in the air and remove everything that isn't waterproof from poor Brooklyn's little room. It's a good thing we're friends as well as roommates, or she'd probably have us in landlord-tenant court.
In other news, I think I have bronchitis. I'm self-medicating with Cipro that I cadged from the doctor-cousins pre-Costa Rica. The whole thing is extraordinarily irritating because, hello, I QUIT SMOKING. That should have been the end of the hacking. At least I might get a little more sympathy now; few people are moved to compassion by the sight of a smoker hacking up a lung. Bewildered disgust, more like it. I'm not getting any sympathy at home though; when I start coughing and gasping for breath, my sister sighs impatiently, stabs the pause button on the TiVo, and snaps, "Stop it! Stop!"
I think it's her way of signaling to me that I'll need to find someone else to take care of me in my (rapidly approaching) dotage.