Oh, right. The leak. Well, look. We called our insurance company on Tuesday, March 11th - the same day we had our dear Sarah over for dinner, which she ended up mostly preparing because I was busy showing the insurance guy around. I'm a great hostess like that, which means when I say "you have an open invitation to our house", you should hear "because someone needs to cook around here."
A week later, our house looked like this:
|"Well, when I say 'house' it was only a hole in the ground covered by a sheet of tarpaulin, but it was a house to us"|
|Second verse, same as the first|
And lest you shy delicately away from imagining just what it was like, I will re-enact it faithfully for you:
Sandi: No, don't--
[whole family moves to a hotel room]
|This hotel room, singular|
|So innocent. So full of barf.|
The coolest thing about the hotel room was that the tv was on a swivel, so Seth and I could "put the kids to bed" and still have some time to ourselves. The worst thing about the room was that it was all one room, so while Seth and I were "having some time to ourselves" (read: watching
|In case you can't tell from this well-lit and expertly-focused photograph, this is my darling cherub peeking around the tv for the seven-hundred-and-thirty-ninth time after being put back to bed for the seven-hundred-and-thirty-eighth time.|
We lived in that hotel room for a week; a week that should have been longer but wasn't because insurance companies are The Worst.
Needless to say, we ate mucho mucho hot dogs, and very little work of the non-barf-cleaning variety was done.
|This picture is a lie|
*No, really: hidden. As in, on purpose.