Waving My White Flag on Life’s Attacks

Hey Life, why you gotta be a dick?

I’ve prattled nonstop about my post-divorce money woes. Buckle up, because it gets worse.

It never ceases to amaze me how much I worried about money before my divorce when I have the exact same bills with the loss of an entire income to offset the cost. Why the hell was I worried about buying bread on sale or declining events that cost more than fifty bucks?

I could have been a baller. A miserable baller, but a miserable baller with really cute boots.

My large bills are allocated months in advance. I’m still rebuilding my emergency fund so it’s not pleasant when I can’t sock any away because of bills.

Two days ago, my largest upcoming expenses were half of my property taxes ($2265) and new car tires ($1000). I desperately want to redo my backyard but for $15k-$20k, that’s not the plan.

My job’s profit-sharing payout happened and it gave me a sigh of relief. Some of it went to savings, the rest towards the taxes and tires.

Yesterday, my largest upcoming expense changed. Sigh.

I experienced the joy of leaking pipes. I’m trying to be grateful despite the mayhem it caused. I didn’t have my kids last weekend when it happened. The ceiling with the leak isn’t over anything important, like cabinets or a TV. I was supposed to go away for the weekend with a guy I dumped; if I hadn’t been here to notice, who knows the disaster it would have been.

As soon as I noticed my ceiling bulge, I poked at it with a cooking spoon. Dingy water poured out. I get on a step ladder to inspect and hear a hissing sound.

Fuck. It’s a leak that’s still going. I run outside to turn off the water to the house. Unfortunately, it’s an older knob style (not the lever like today) and no matter how much I turned it, it wouldn’t shut the water off.

The sounds of water spurting from a broken pipe was my version of the telltale of a beating heart. The sound amplified in my ears. I didn’t know what to do because it was a Saturday morning and I knew I had to try going through my home warranty in case this would cost thousands.

I call them and after the longest time on hold, I hysterically yell that this is an emergency and I can’t wait the usual weeks before a contractor comes out. Thankfully, they escalate but it doesn’t mean much; every emergency company they contract with is booked until Monday.

The hissing sound taunts me. I text my friends who live nearby, asking if their handy husbands can help me figure out how to turn off the water. Nikki sends Adam over. Thank the lord.

Adam opens the cover for my water line at the end of my yard (so odd that in this county, anyone can come up and fuck with your water or electrical panel). He manages his best with my limited tools to get the water down to a trickle.

Did it fully stop? No. But it was enough that a few bowls underneath could catch.

My weekend plans were to be both ultra-productive and leisurely (loads of Netflix). Going over 48 hours with no water was neither productive nor leisurely. I timed my errands with my need to go to the bathroom (that’s as bad as it sounds). I moved my oversized dining table, meant for my former house, away from the area and shuffled eight chairs into my living room.

Can’t cook when your pots are in your dishwasher, still dirty. Can’t wash anything. Can’t easily make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich when your knives are dirty (a spoon was not a viable alternative).

Can’t exercise if you can’t shower at some point after. All I can do is wash my hands with bottled water like I’m Oprah. Oh, and eat loads of cookies. Chips Ahoy with Reese’s Pieces specifically.

By Sunday evening, I couldn’t handle my grossness. Who knows how long it would be before I could get my water back to running? I remember that I’m grandfathered into an uber-cheap plan at 24-Hour Fitness (so cheap that even if I don’t go, it’s worth it). The one by my house claims it’s newly renovated as of last month.

After scrambling to find my old high school lock and packing a ghetto shower bag, I head over.

When they said “newly renovated”, they meant the pool. Not the fitness area. Not the showers.

I squeeze in a workout around other humans for the first time since March 2020. Other people are gross. Other people are too close to me. Other people are using the machines I want to use. My garage gym sucks but I don’t have to deal with the embarrassment of not remembering how to use the adductor machine.

After working out, it’s the moment of truth: will I get a decent shower in the public bathroom or will it be hell?

Spoiler alert: it was hell.

Whoever designed these showers was a dude. Other than the handicap shower, the others were cramped with nowhere to put a towel or shampoo bottles. I couldn’t even sling the towel over the door. Was I supposed to walk out, buck naked? That’s not how it works when you’re a chick.

I decide to use the handicap one because at least there’s a little seat to put my stuff on and there’s a towel hook next to the flimsy shower curtain. As I shower, water pools around my ankles. Not sure how that’s possible when it’s one big open area plus a drain under my feet. I use the free 24 Hour Fitness soap as body wash and tell myself that I will never, ever, complain about my crappy shower at home ever again.

Eventually, I slap on clothes and get home. Dammit, I should have gone pee one last time before leaving. I approximated that I could get two flushes per toilet in my house and I was saving them for going to bed and waking up. We’re doing the Economics of Urination here.

Jeremy texts me to go over for a thinly-veiled booty call. It’s a trek to drive over and having to do my makeup when I had a dirty gym shower isn’t appealing. Still, he points out that he has running water and I’m desperate to get out of the house.

Once I arrive, there’s no nookie. There’s me, on the couch, bemoaning my pipes and shower nightmare. Finally, we have sex and I drive home. How the hell am I going to take off all this makeup without water?

Skip forward through the saga to the repairman coming to fix the pipe. There’s a massive hole in my ceiling and the wood beams have mold. Friends text me that I should redo my pipes with something called PEX, which is some miracle plastic that won’t corrode like copper. I confirm with the repairman: once you get one pinhole leak from corroded pipes, it’s only a matter of time before you get a ton more.

I call a few places to get quotes. I have to pay to replace half the ceiling drywall anyway, why not just get the whole thing done?

Nine thousand dollars, that’s why not.

$9225 to be precise. Nine thousand two hundred and twenty-five freaking dollars. I want to cry. I’ve spent more in ten months on repairing this tiny house than I ever did on a house more than double the size over four years. All on one income.

Tears burn my eyes. Why is this happening after divorce? Is the universe punishing me in some asshole way? Why is this happening when my ex-husband is unemployed and I’m not taking any of his child support?

I’m not the tale of a woman who gave up her career and personal savings to raise her husband’s kids, thus leaving her in financial dire straits. I have a degree and I kept my career. I make relatively okay money. I pulled my kids out of afterschool care (my God, I loathe doing homework with them though) and I’m not splurging on cute purses. What more do you want from me?

Sadly, we’ve created a two-income society. Well, “they” created a two-income society. I’m considering taking on another full-time job since my current one is remote and thankfully, extremely light on duties. I was offered an opportunity to do some anonymous porn but I’ll take a million showers at 24-Hour Fitness before I do that with the man who offered it.

Okay, Life. You win. I’m waving my white flag. What do I need to do for you to give me a break?