raining, pouring

Our house in Baltimore had some leaky roof problems. In fact, in our entire history of renovating properties, leaking roofs have been the bane of our existence. All of this reached a horrifying climax in our nine months of rooflessness here on Avondale Circle. Nine months. 25 plastic garbage cans. 5 rooms with caved ceilings. And a few more giant steps toward either total insanity or the placidity of a cow eating clover. (not sure which, but then, neither is the cow.)
Now we have a roof which is so uber-engineered that it not only won’t leak, it would most likely survive a nuclear detonation. So, no more leaks, right? Wrong. Water doesn’t have to be rain. It can come from your very own kids’ shower head. And your very own tile, that you installed (inexpertly) your very own self is even more vulnerable to failure than any old roof shingles. Tupperware, and and a fortuitously unfinished kitchen ceiling are handling the problem for now. I hope some generously applied marine caulk will handle it for later. But someday, I hope to know--what is the cosmic significance of water, falling where one doesn’t want it? There’s got to be a metaphor in there somewhere.