About the time I fell through my ceiling…

It wasn’t the proudest moment of my life but it was the stupidest. Don’t worry, it actually gets worse.

Allow me to set the scene.

It was a hot and stormy day, specifically August 18, 2021. I’d lived in my new house about a month. It had been unseasonably rainy that summer, delaying my septic tank install by weeks and weeks. As a new Texan, I wasn’t yet used to the rain and the amount that came down at once. In the northwest, we had drizzle and spouts of showers that lasted anywhere from an hour to nine months. In Texas, we get flash floods and sun the next day. I prefer the latter, if you’re asking.

Video of the rain:

Suddenly I heard the rain inside the house. Let me be clear: the rain was inside my house. This is not to be confused with being inside the house and hearing the rain on the roof that’s outside the house. The soft pitter patter of drops was falling on my wood floors. Dumb though I may be, I was fairly certain rain was supposed to mind its business and stay outside.

I went into the living room to gather more information and holy effing hell yes there was a puddle on the floor.

The water had come through here, my newly cracked and water damaged drywall in the ceiling. But that wasn’t the only place.

This is the complete opposite side of the living room, the wall behind the television. The water is shining because, you guessed it, it’s freshly wet.

Now is where things went from bad to catastrophe. What had happened was, 37 years before, my mother and father birthed an idiot. This idiot, upon seeing water trickling into her house, decided the best thing to do was go up into the attic with a tarp. Oh trust me, it gets more ridiculous, just hang on.

Up I go into the attic wearing a long sleeved shirt and cowboy boots. This matters. Remember, it’s August. The temperature is Satan’s Body Odor. I now have a tarp (of course I do) and a pan. Why a pan? Why not a pan? Haven’t you seen all the cartoons where there’s a leaky roof and they put a pan underneath to collect the drip drip drip? Keep up and stop asking silly questions.

I slink along, cat-like, toward the center of the roof where I see little spots of light, specifically around the now-removed cupola, which was the main offender. Of course there was already a tarp there. The previous owners had seen all the same cartoons I had. Remember when I referred to my house as “Casa La Crap“? You’re getting a better picture as to why, aren’t you?

Anyway, as I moved toward the area where I wanted to place my pan, my cowboy boots, which have slick soles, as in nothing, as in no grip at all, no tread, no grooves, not even gum some sick teenager spat onto the ground, slipped.

There are no hand rails in rafters, only ceiling joists. My left foot punched through drywall on the left side of the joist, my right foot punched through drywall on the right side of the joist. Momentum, being the rule-adhering little deviant it is, yanked me down until it and I were acted upon by an outside force: the ceiling joist. On my vagina.

Drywall and cotton puff insulation fell like Hans Gruber all over my new dining table.

There I straddled. Surveying the mess I’d single-handedly caused. Gripping the ceiling joist with my labia. I’ve seen more than just cartoons with leaking roofs. I’ve also seen HGTV home renovation shows, which probably imbued me with the underserved confidence that got me into the rafters. One thing I never saw on Fixer Upper was Joanna Gaines strength-testing rafter joists using nothing but her lady bits. I’m not saying there aren’t other tools available for this, but I know for certain that my ceiling joists can withstand the pressure of my falling crotch. That has to count for something.

How did I get down from the rafters? I’m not sure. I can’t remember, seriously. Most likely I un plucked my hoo-haw from the joist and lowered myself in CrossFit fashion to the floor of my dining room. Once the shock wore off, the pain kicked in.

Lest anyone be confused, this was not a “sexy” situation. In fact I think this situation prevented any future sexy ones.

I was unsure if I could walk, sit, squat. I considered, briefly, calling a neighbor to take me to the emergency room. Believe it or not, I wasn’t embarrassed by the ordeal. I’m still not. Should I be? Probably. In the moment what I was most concerned about was driving at all since it was flooding near everywhere. So I decided to tough it out and pop some painkillers and call it good. The land down under was lacerated, but it’s not like my face or anything where looks matter. You know?

Well, you don’t and we’ll keep it that way, but that part of me was fine. Eventually.

I went about cleaning the mess I’d made and living with a new feature in my house:

I love so many things about this photo now that it’s been a few years since snapping it. There’s the ladder leading to the attic. And there are the cowboy boots.

It should be stated that many red flags were flown on my inspection report. One thing that didn’t come up was the state of the dining room ceiling. Not even an asterisk. So in a house filled with repairs in need of my attention, I went ahead and made a bigger one. When life gives you lemons, put them in the freezer, let them harden, then chuck ’em through some windows. That’s what I always say.

If you think the repair of this hole in my ceiling went smoothly, no. Of course it didn’t. I had to make things a lot worse and hurt myself a few more times before coming to a sane conclusion.

Oh and yes, the pan is still up in the rafters.