Forty Daisies Daisies

That's it. After almost eight years of marriage, for the first time ever, Adam is sleeping on the couch (for the night; everyone knows he naps there regularly). Booted out of the bed. Sleeping solo.

Don't fear. Our marriage isn't in trouble. Just our basement. Adam's camping out on the couch so he can get up every few hours to make sure the waters haven't reached epic Gilgamesh levels (because, let's face it, all the Noah references are getting a bit... draining).

(And I can't get "Rise and Shine" out of my head. Aaaaaggg!)

It's not so dire, as long as someone stays on top of it. Adam stayed home from work today to keep the levels down, and our playroom is still water free (well, except for the water we've tracked through it). It's just the back room and his office. And the waters are at low levels; they just need to be monitored and vacuumed. We've got three sump pumps going--my father-in-law brought the only one he could find in all the New Hampshire hardware stores he checked; Adam waited in line at our local hardware store for their 12:30 shipment; and a neighbor saw my Facebook posting and called to offer me one of hers--so we're better off than most of this town (the local e-mail list is filled with folks trying to find sump pumps and wet vacs. A number of folks are waiting for the fire department to bail them out.)

Adam is only worried about his office, as there's a subfloor than can get moldy. But as I pointed out, he's allergic to mold, so we can just wait till he gets sick and then we'll know there's mold. For some reason, he didn't love that idea.

Tomorrow, Adam seems to think he's returning to work. So I go from a day with Pie to a day with the sump pump. Sump pump. At least it's fun to say. Well, not as fun as "Bombay Sapphire martini with extra olive," but we all must find our fun where we can. Sump pump. Tee hee.