The building that contains the Fry manse has had a tough winter. First the heat was kaput for several days. Now, following the season’s 242nd blizzard, the roof is leaking. Through a quirk of intrabuilding geography that I find less than delightful, the water’s chosen route was to descend three floors and pool atop our bathroom ceiling. Cue a leak and, after two days of soaked sheetrock, the inevitable. Which came at 4:15 a.m., as these things do.
Emily (groggily): What the hell was that?
Me: I’m gonna assume the bathroom ceiling.
Correct. Which at the time seemed like a good thing: The water had eliminated that pesky sheetrock from its path, we had a bucket, etc. But no. Now the water is descending an additional floor and pooling atop our downstairs bathroom ceiling.
Being a Mets fan here is somewhat helpful in making predictions: The upstairs bathroom ceiling is done collapsing; the downstairs ceiling is up 3 1/2 with 17 games to play.
And yet, as I sit here in the bowels of my snowbound, falling-apart house, I’m … happy.
And why is that? Because tomorrow the Mets play the Braves, and things like 1:10 and 7:10 and Ws and Ls and SNY return to my lexicon. It’ll just be a small step closer to spring, but it’ll feel like a giant leap. And while ceilings may still be falling, I’ll no longer feel like the sky is, too. Hang in there, everybody. We’ve almost made it.