Exploding toilets.

I don't know if maybe fate is trying to tell me something, but it's like water pipes keep exploding around me.

I was procrastinating again today. Conveniently, after lunch, my mother, who has a fascination for sucky movies (like the Attack of the Blob from Outer-Space) claimed that she would watch one of her many recently purchased indian movies. Yes. You read that right. The ones from Bollywood with the sucky subtitles.

Mom loves indian movies. She says they're like a breath of fresh air.

For those who don't know what Bollywood movies are like, think of them as a really clichéd love story of betrothal between, usually, two people who can't stand each other and slowly fall in love. The movies commonly include travelling (as in, boy comes from England/America, girl comes from India, culture clash, etc). The boy is commonly a bad boy. The girl is commonly a good daddy's girl. They fall in love. They marry. The end.

Typically a Bollywood movie lasts three hours and involves people breaking into dance, as well as people who very obviously incarnate different stereotypical character types (nasty aunt, sagely grandma, kind but honourable father, etc.). Oh, yes. And honour is like, the prime value of each movie.

A good indian boy, for instance, does not shag a good indian girl behind the windmill.

So mom and I were laughing our backsides off because how can anyone NOT like seeing a very intense match of kabaddi being played in order to win the female lead's hand? I mean, the way they talk about it, you'd think they're going to have a deathmatch with sabers or something.

And then you see all these people holding their breaths and saying kabaddi as they wrestle each other to the ground.

Amazing stuff.

By 5:15 PM, the movie was still not over. We were at the part where the male lead, after bloodying up his really assholish American (and very not Indian) archenemy who was also his step-brother (because the male lead had been adopted by the guy's father who was a good Indian and wanted his legitimate son to wed a good Indian girl―the female lead), admitted to the world that he was in love with the female lead, who was betrothed to the archenemy, and then claimed that he would not whisk her away from her parents dishonourably.

Suddenly my mother goes, "What's that noise?"

I pause the movie. "What noise?"

We both listen attentively.

"Water?" My mom says.

The clear sound of trickling water, like a fountain, comes from the darkened kitchen to our left. Water doesn't typically run in the kitchen when we're not using it, you know. And, as far as we're concerned, the house isn't haunted, so there was no logical explanation for why water would be running without our presence.

"Shit," I say, slowly beginning to understand what's going on.

"Shit!"

My mom stands from her chair and we run to the kitchen. It's too dark for us to see anything, but there's no mistaking it. Water is pouring from somewhere in front of us in the dark, and it's pouring a lot. Like someone took three hoses and is just letting the water run from the ceiling to the floor.

"Shit," my mom says again, after I started the trend.

She reaches for the switch and turns the lights on. We have twelve spots in the kitchen ceiling, well cast into the drywall, and they suddenly illuminate the kitchen.

Our eyes widen. One of the spots, in the far corner, is pissing water out like it's the indian monsoon. It's a steady jet of water, like the one you'd get from a bathtub faucet.

My mom screams, "SHIT!" and runs upstairs. I grab our big garbage can and put it under the stream of water, turn off the lights (I might not be a rocket scientist, but I know that electricity and water don't mix) then I run after her upstairs.

The bathroom above the kitchen is situated right next to my room, and it has a history with leaking bathtubs.

Except no one was using it at the time, which meant something like a pipe had exploded.

I reach my mother and nearly kill myself slipping in a puddle of water. She's bent over the toilet, and screaming, "Call your father!"

Water is pouring out of the tank of the toilet like a waterfall.

This typically means, "We're in deep manure."

I slip and run back downstairs, screaming my head off, "DAD! DAAAD! DAAAAAD!! The toilet exploded!"

My dad, from the basement, screams, "WHAT?"

"THE TOILET EXPLODED AND THERE'S WATER LEAKING INTO THE KITCHEN."

I'd like to add that, as my father runs up the stairs, mumbling, "shit shit shit shit" as he goes, there's the stupid, "I Love My India" Bollywood song playing in my head.

My father runs upstairs to join my mother, who is doing a great job at keeping her calm, in light of the situation, and I let them panic there on their own. Instead of getting in their way, I grab lots of paper towels and start sponging up the gigantic mess of water that poured on the kitchen floor before I put the garbage there. The flow of water is still steadily pouring out.

My dad runs past me again, and I keep sponging up. My mother comes back to me and throws me a couple of clean dishrags.

"Here, sweetie, you can also use these."

"What happened anyway?" I ask as my dad comes back upstairs from the basement ―where he stopped the water― "The toilet―"

"The tank cracked open," my mom says, utterly confused. "I don't know how that happened."

I blink at her. "What? What do you mean the tank cracked open? I mean... It's thick ceramic and Lord Llama (my brother―he insists being called this) and I haven't been kicking it or anything."

She says, still looking completely lost, "I don't know. We're going to have to buy a new toilet, though."

"We're going to need a lot of towels," I say.

"I know," my mom says. "I already used all the towels and blankets in the house." And she runs back upstairs.

I sigh and get back to mopping up all the water. It's everywhere. It was even leaking inside one of the top cabinets, and out another completely random spotlight. So I started mopping those up too.

"Oh, and sweetie," my mom calls back to me from upstairs, "putting the garbage can there was a smart idea! Nice thinking!"

You know, it's impressive how my mom can actually remember to congratulate people on a job well-done when we're dealing with the biggest problem we could ever envision dealing with.

So I yell back, "Thanks!"

Eventually, the downpour slowed to a steady trickle, and most of the water was mopped up. I went back upstairs. My parents had moved all my furniture away from the bathroom wall in order to mop up the floor in my room, as well as the inside of cupboards and, of course, the bathroom floor. I see my parents looking down at the now empty toilet critically, talking about how we were going to deal with having no water, considering that if the water comes back, we'll get another flood.

"I'll just close off the water access to the toilet," my dad says. "Then the water can come back, no problem."

"Alright," my mom says. She turns to me. "How are things downstairs?"

"Well, we're going to have to redo the ceiling," I say, and it's weird to be discussing it so casually, considering it'll probably represent a whole week of reparations ―maybe we were in shock― "and the garbage is full of water, but aside from that, I mopped everything up."

"Oh, good," my mom says. "You did the right thing." She turns to my father. "So what now?"

"Now," he says, "we pull out the spots, let the water drip out, and wait for everything to dry. We can't do anything while the drywall is soggy."

Okay. My job here is done.

Mom watches my dad head back downstairs, then says, "You can't say life isn't eventful when you live here."

I shrug. "This bathroom needed redecorating anyway."

"Hm. At least the floors are clean now."

Maybe we're madwomen, because we start laughing hysterically.

Until I head to the basement, start writing this entry, and Lord Llama, from his own computer, suddenly asks, "What's that sound?"

Plok.

I frown.

Plok.

"I don't know."

Plok.

We both turn around, and one of the neons in the basement (we have drywall there too) is dripping from one of its corners. We both stand as one and slowly walk to examine the ceiling of the basement.

Plok.

There's a whole part of drywall that is soaked through.

Plok.

"Ah, fuck."

"MOM, DAD, IT'S LEAKING INTO THE BASEMENT."

"I guess we really should fix the air vent in the kitchen. It shouldn't be near the floor. I bet all the water that poured from the bathroom into the kitchen poured into that vent and straight to here."

"Again, Lord Llama, your deductions never cease to amaze me."

"I know, I'm a genius. Hand me a paper towel."

So. What's next? A water-treatment plant explosion?

Love,
CM