2.25.2013

First Time Home Owner: Damn That Drip!

If you didn't already know, I recently bought a house. My wife and I agree that this is by far the most grown up and terrifying decision we've ever made, and firmly secures our status as white yuppies no longer able to be cool and hip like our apartment-dwelling friends who cannot possibly fathom anchoring themselves down with a house. But so far home ownership has been pretty nice; I've even painted a room four fucking times! It still doesn't feel completely real to me; there's no graduation ceremony or singular moment where you feel yourself ascending from responsibility-free renter to home owner, and we were in our last place long enough that it still kinda feels like we're on vacation or something.

But last night I learned the true plight of the home owner: the random drip.


It was raining last night, as it often does here, when my wife and I went to bed. She'd been in Hawaii for a week and I was used to bachelor life (read: beer and video games until 2am), so I had trouble falling asleep. Our bedroom is in the basement and our house was recently re-insulated so we don't usually hear the weather, which is kind of a bummer to me because I like nothing more than hearing the rain when I'm falling asleep but something about a sub-ground-floor window makes me feel like if I open it I'm opening a portal to a dimension filled with spiders.

As I was tossing and turning a slow, steady noise popped into my consciousness:

Drip drip drip dripdrip drip drip dripdripdrip drip drip drip drip

"Huh. Rainwater running off of something, I guess. Has that been dripping this whole time? How did I just now notice it? Weird."

Dripdrip drip drip drip drip dripdripdrip drip drip drip drip drip drip drip dripdrip 

"Okay, just tune it out. The bed is comfy, your wife is snuggly, close your eyes and dream, god dammit."

Drip drip dripdrip drip dripdrip drip drip drip drip drip drip drip drip

"If it was at least a regular rhythm it'd be like white noise. What the fuck could even be dripping out there? I've never heard that before."

DRIP DRIP DRIP DRIPDRIPDRIPDRIPDRIP DRIP DRIP DRIP DRIP DRIPDRIP DRIP DRIP DRIP

"It's fucking burrowing into my BRAIN. There's nothing but grass out there! What could be making that sound?!"

DRIP DRIP DRIP DRIP DRIP DRIP DRIP DRIP DRIP DRIP DRIP DRIPDRIPDRIPDRIPDRIPDRIPDRIP

"Maybe it's in the house? Oh god, is there a hole in the roof? That would be just fucking perfect, wouldn't it? It'll probably be $15,000 to replace. Fuck. Why did I ever buy a house? I'm too stupid to hang a picture properly, I can't take care of a fucking house."

DRIP DRIP DRIP DRIPDRIPDRIP DRIP DRIP DRIP DRIPDRIP DRIP DRIP DRIP

"ENOUGH, GOD DAMMIT! I'M GONNA FIND THIS FUCKING DRIP AND I'M GONNA END THIS."

I get out of bed and walk out of the bedroom. Instantly the drip's gone. There's a not-nearly-brief-enough moment where I consider the possibility that I have gone insane, The Shining-style, and there's not even a drip there. Kat is sound asleep, after all. I have to look out a window to confirm it's actually raining because I can't hear the rain at all in the rest of the house. I walk back into the bedroom for a moment.

drip drip drip drip drip

Vindicated, sort of, I head upstairs. Again, no sound. I head to the Eastern side of the house, above our bedroom, and I can just barely make out the noise. It's toward the front of the house. A glance at our oven tells me it's 1:30am, which as far as I'm concerned is WAY too late to be dealing with this shit, but now I'm up. I'm motivated. I'm not going to sleep with that infernal dripping anyway; not when I'm feeling like a character in an Edgar Allen Poe story. I know what I have to do. I throw open the front door.

And there it is, plain as day. I mean, not plain as day. It's night. I can't see anything. But I can hear it: the drip. So loud it might as well be a timpani booming on the side of my house. I wonder if my neighbors are sitting awake in their house, hating me for daring to have such a loud drip. I steel myself to head outside and fix whatever the hell this thing is, when it dawns on me that I'm standing on my front porch in my boxers and a wife beater. I don't have shoes. I don't have a coat. It's pouring rain. It's probably about 40 degrees.

"Okay," I think to myself, "you've won this round, drip, but tomorrow I am fixing the HELL out of you." I head back to bed, suddenly shivering and resigned to a night of fitful, drippy sleep. I lie down, sigh, and wait. 

Nothing. No drip.

Did I imagine the whole thing? I ask my wife the next day and she has no recollection of me even leaving the bed, which is odd because she's a much lighter sleeper than I. Of course today it's not raining so I have no way to find what the hell was dripping out there. In my brief experience with these types of things, "maybe it just fixed itself" rarely turns out to be the correct diagnosis.

Oh well, I'm sure it'll rain again tonight.

3 comments:

murrenpursuesthedream.com said...

You know you've acclimated to the area when you go outside in your boxers in the rain.

Anonymous said...

Congratuations on your recent move to the Northwest. You'll get used to these 'dripping' sounds soon.

Tavin Schonberg said...

Lol, that was enjoyable. Sometimes a certain quantity of rain changes the size and location of drips, and that might have been the perfect drip level to bug you. Worth fixing whenever you find it. And yes, most low level windows are in fact portals to dimensions of spiders.