Let me share tonight's phone call... I'm in Detroit, two hours away from home. My wife calls and tells me the basement's leaking. Great.
I ask where, and recognize the spot. It's below a bathroom, and a couple of years ago, something there leaked and set off the smoke alarm.
"It's the bathroom," I say.
She checks. "No, everything's dry."
The definition of "everything" has not yet been determined
The basement has a drop ceiling. "You'll have to lift some ceiling tiles out of the way," I say.
Eventually, she does. A flood of water comes down. She tells me where it's coming from. It's the bathroom, I say.
She checks again. This time, she notices a wet spot on the wall under the sink.
Where I asked her to look last time. Specifically. Apparently, that's not part of everywhere.
I have her do a couple of tests. She can't see anything. Or feel anything. The kids holler that there's water pouring from the ceiling. Problem isolated.
I tell her to turn of the shutoff valves under the sink until I can get home.
Forgot. This house was built without shutoff valves. Cheap bastaids.
Okay... no one uses the sink until a plumber gets here to fix it and install shutoff valves. Might as well... the cost will be minimal at this point.
So call a plumber. Any plumber. Except John the Wonder Plumber (you may remember him from a month or so back -- the second and third comings of Noah).
At this point, she gets mad at me because I'm in what I call tech support mode. No emotion, factual, and explicit descriptions of what's happening and needs to be done.
She's done with me. Explicitly.
I call back a few minutes later. Might as well have the plumber install shutoffs on all of the sinks. I mention this.
She's none too thrilled with talking to me. I give up. We'll see what's done when I get home tomorrow.
BLAST BLAST BLAST!!!