Every time I have surgery (not often) or a close family member dies (again not often) or something happens (often) that makes me want to be reclusive or forces me to be, my 600 square feet of prime Manhattan (Upper West Side) real estate floods.
I already have a trap door in my bedroom and keep the pipes for the bathroom exposed–though it’s out of the bathroom and behind the TV unit–so I couldn’t see the water coming out. Could smell it; thought it was coming from a building next door where they are constantly renovating the already renovated penthouse terrace.
Life’s complicated enough. My home’s supposed to be my sanctuary. But it’s not. My dumb ass coop board sends memos saying “be vigilant,” as if we have control over the pipes. My building has three mortgages; I thought one of them would go to replace the pipes on my line which are known to be all over the place (including under the floor boards) and constructed or reconstructed badly.
Of course they don’t know which apartment the leak is emanating from. I wanted to spend the day reading and writing. Instead once again I feel like an interloper in my own apartment.
I should put it on the market and make an outrageous sum of money, but due to obligations I have to stay in New York for another year and a half at least.
Then I feel stupid for reacting so miserably when people have real problems that aren’t solved with a wrench and new caulking. But I haven’t had a real meal in eight days and I’m kind of feeling testy.