Our 3rd roommate moved in and the toilet blew up.

The phone went off at 8 a.m. letting me know #3 was on her way. Along with her entire family. They’re a lovely bunch, moving her in happened in a snap, and the company was more than welcome. The first Saturday night in our apartment consisted of watching The Awakening on Netflix (much better than we anticipated) and praying for a thunderstorm that dissipated at the last moment.

But the next morning was when the real fun began.

I was jolted awake by #3 (with whom I share a room and adjoining bathroom) yelling “Kayleigh!!” So I stumbled out of my bed and into the bathroom where the toilet, already a shifty old thing, had overflowed. And I don’t mean it was a little too full of water.

Water gushed out of the rim. We were standing in half an inch of water that had already begun flooding our floor and water was STILL bubbling up. So, half dressed, we watched the old piping unclog (future note: don’t use too much paper!), reset the tank’s stopper, and mopped up our bathroom. Then…SURPRISE.

It’s raining downstairs in the living room.

We quickly laid down towels, then called our landlady ten times to no answer and a full voice mailbox. Thankfully, under closer analysis, the ceiling was in no danger of falling and wasn’t soggy. The water had only dampened the adhesive and thin set mud holding the sheet-rock slabs together, making a line in our ceiling that the water then dripped through.

We spent the next twenty minutes holding a hairdryer up to the crack in the ceiling to dry the tape and get started on closing that crack up.

#3 was convinced that disaster followed her and she’d be causing an onslaught of disaster in the apartment.

I convinced her it was a coincidence and what we really needed was some french toast and tea. And I was right.