Mucho Raining

A few days before Christmas, I was 2000 miles away in Arizona when I received a call from Brian, still back n NC. 

"Do we have cleaning gloves or something?"

"I don't believe so, why?"

"Well, the bathroom floor is covered. In ... I don't know what. But it's everywhere."

Turns out some joint in the piping of the toilet needed replacing.  The water that leaked out created a mucky, grayish-brown mess when it mixed with some of Monkey's litter that he had thrown onto the floor.  Someone came to fix it in the morning, but couldn't patch the sizeable hole in the wall for a few days (at least) because it was too wet to set.

Fast forward.  I called the repair people yesterday to see about having someone come out to patch the wall.  The owner told me that one of his guys had taken care of it, and he'd give me a call back after he'd looked into the schedule and such.

I ran a few errands today, and returned home to a key in my door, which was unlocked.  Some comfort came from the fact that there was a tag on the key with my address on it; I figured it was probably the repair guy.  (My natural tendency to be overly imaginative, however, sparked the idea that someone could have just been watching my house, waiting for me to leave... and that they were doing this for a lot of homes, hence the need to label my key, perhaps?) So I drove around to the office.  No one there.  I called the property manager.  Nada. Then I called Brian.  He told me that the person who had originally come to fix the toilet had been a stocky Hispanic who spoke next to no English.  At that point, such an individual strolled past my car into the office.

I understand that I live in a complex, some units of which are rented out by the property office.  But not mine. I own my home.  I'll accept that the office has a key, just in case.  I mean, if there was a burst pipe or an electrical shortage, I can see the need to get into my home to save the ones around me.  You know, in case of an emergency.  Patching the wall behind my toilet in no way constitutes an emergency.

Yes, now I know that it was just the repair man - a 4'10" repair man at that. Nevertheless, I came home and there was someone in my house! It freaked me out!

The repairman returned a few minutes later with supplies.  Brian was right - he spoke very little English.  Although I speak a decent amount of Spanish, I was really shaken still and didn't quite have the capacity to use it.  I had just returned home to a supposed intruder merely 10 minutes before - how could I be expected to conjugate verbs in any sort of recognizable manner?  As such, this was the extent of our conversation.

Him: "Mucho Raining."

Me: "Oh, si, it is."

And now there is a stocky Mexican man in my bathroom, who speaks hardly English, whistling Lady Gaga's "Bad Romance".  

At least my wall will be fixed.