The Shakespearean Tragedy of my Bathroom Ceiling

Let me tell you a tale of woe - that of Tragic Hamster and her wrecked bathroom ceiling-o. (Shut up, I'm still working out my iambic pentameter.)

I keep waiting for the day when the tub in the bathroom above mine just falls through the ceiling

So the ceiling itself is fixed, assuming the definition of "fixed" is 'To be held together with rice paper, fairy dust and/or prayer.' The bulbous tumor over the tub is gone, although now only a thin layer of plaster separates the bathroom proper from the poisonous insulation and rot in the ceiling. But hey, I figure that's just one of those NYC Shakespearean trade-offs; die slowly from breathing in rot or let the ceiling cave in and die immediately. I choose 'die slowly.' So really, I've won this battle.

(Oh, woe, but I have also lost! Allow thee to grumble and hit the sauce!)

More good news: our rotted window ledge has also been "fixed" AKA painted white, because white paint is the recommended professional treatment for window ledges that are falling apart. Did you know this? I did not know this. White paint is miraculous! It also removes mold and and mildew and cuts perfect waffle fries and will babysit your kids for free if you play your cards right. White paint is the swiss-army-knife of household repair! And if I squint just so, I almost don't notice the shredded wood or the haphazard swaths of paint all over the surrounding tiles or the the fact that the ledge itself is now just a weirdly cut slab of shitty marble. No problem at all. Because, again, at least the ceiling isn't caving in.

(Trade-offs are a fickle bitch. Oh, if only I was shitty and rich!)

"Oh God, this looks terrible," my husband whispered to me. "What's wrong with the ledge?"

"It's a piece of weird looking rock now."

"Is it supposed to look that way?"

"You mean awful?" I asked.

"Why did he paint the tiles?"

"Sometimes tiles need a fresh coat of paint?"

"Oh. How thoughtful."

"Yes," I said.

"You know I think this is the same dude who used to live illegally in the basement? I guess he's fixing bathrooms now."

"Didn't he give you a fake name?"

"Yeah."

"Oh good," I said, examining the light-switch that had been completely painted over for no reason,  "I guess it's good that we at least know his fake name."

So now our stuff is all piled up around the living room like a toiletries bin exploded and our bathroom smells like a combination of glue and dirt and rot and paint. The cat I think is having some sort of prolonged panic attack and the dog has taken to wandering around with my tampons in his mouth. On the bright side, we can move everything back into the bathroom today. On the downside,  literally everything I just typed in the above paragraphs.

Living in NYC without a trust-fund is a lot like living inside this moment from The Money Pit

We concludeth now with a ceiling repaired, a tragic victory if anyone cared. That it wouldn't be perfect is something we full knew, for you cannot have your cake and eateth it too.
(My iambic pentameter is great now, thanks.)

Happy Thursday!