Down Pout

I like the indoors. It’s warm, safe, and familiar. Outside sucks; it’s not for everyone. Luckily, Fiancé-To-Be is an avid outdoorsman and jack of most trades and until the other day, has been available for all our maintenance needs. We had a heck of a winter with foot after foot of snow between October and March. I am ready for climate change but somehow I don’t think I alone could release enough aerosol hairspray into the atmosphere to make a difference (environmentalists take note, this is a joke). This past week, it finally warmed up and the shoddy workmanship the previous owner called “downspouts” became useless. By the looks of the front step and the landscaping around the house, it is evident this man came directly from the Canada’s Worst Handyman winner’s circle still wielding his Screw-Hammer.

It all started in the kitchen, which, in my house, is not unusual. Unless you’re filling up a bathtub or washing machine, the sound of running water is never a comforting one. It could mean your kitchen sink is leaking down the basement wall which will lead you to have to tear out drywall and insulation and start over. Then, you see mold and frost behind the insulation so you continue your examination and determine it essential to rip out all the insulation in the rim joists in the thick of winter. This story deserves its own post, so I’ll stop there. To summarize thus far: outside sucks, homeownership sucks, and water sucks.

I could hear something odd occurring through the closet in the kitchen and I knew it had to be either the downspouts or aliens so I actually went outside to investigate. A 300gpm waterfall was pouring out right beside the house so of course, I panicked. I picked up the ice pick and frantically chipped away the ice to free the downspout from it’s wintery prison.

(As an aside, I didn’t play baseball in school for a reason. My hand eye coordination has always been a little “off”).

The downspout started spraying water out the top like an arterial bleed out of a slasher movie. I assume them to be equally horrifying. I had two options: call Jack of Most Trades or “fix” it myself. Anyone who grew up watching the Red Green Show knows duct tape is the ultimate fix for absolutely everything.

After I called Tony and told him I was headed inside for the duct tape, he arrived in the yard in record time. He took one look at my hack-job-duct tape- surgery, called me cute, and had me hand him tools while I pouted.

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