The Creature from the Black Lagoon

Has thus arisen from my bathroom drain.

Plumbing in my apartment is perfunctory, to say the least, and it’s certainly nothing fancy. But since the entire bathroom used to be a giant shower, there is a straight pipe drain in the center of the floor, with a slightly raised door stoop to prevent water from infiltrating into my bedroom. Nice idea.

Ever since a short shower on Sunday, water from the sink or shower seems to like to renew itself by spilling out from the floor drain and into my bathroom. So, I’d mopped up one or two messes over the weekend and figured that I would submit a work request on Monday. I’d only had this issue once before, after an ill-timed bath (note to self: let water drain slowly, or I’ll be able to use the entire bathroom as a tub.). It didn’t flood again after the initial time, so I figured I would be okay once the water drained all the way out.

This morning, a nice, dark, uninspiring Monday morning – the kind where the alarm goes off way too early and its cold enough to make getting out from the blankets pure torture – I went to the bathroom to start up the shower so it warmed to hot before I stepped in. Standard operating procedure since, I don’t know, the first day I moved in here.

As I was looking in the mirror, I felt something wet and cold slither over my bare feet, dampening the bottom of my pajamas. When I glanced down, the puddle of water from the bathroom drain was enormous – and black like dirt. It also had a nice “eau du plague” smell to it, which permeated the room and made me gag. I nearly killed all of the nerves in my shin by sliding across the floor, into the side of the “real” bathtub, and flipping off the water before the entire Hoover Dam exploded and left me with a dirty, stinking version of Lake Mead all over my bathroom floor.

After I cleaned off my feet, squeegeed the floor dry of foul, Black Lagoon water, and tossed my gnarly pajama bottoms into the basket (all my laundry was done the day before, of course), I slumped back into bed for another twenty minutes of sleep. I could, had I opted to, take a shower in my other bathroom; however, it is my storage locker. I just wasn’t in the right mood to scrub up with my Christmas tree as the loofah sponge and mosquito repellant as the wash.

And so, this is why living abroad requires the highest degree of one’s sense of humor. It’s either that, or I would be sitting on my floor, Glenn Close-style, clicking the desk light on and off, on and off whilst listening to Madame Butterfly over and over again..

There are days when I feel like my life could be a scene from a some ridiculous comedy movie.

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