The Sky is Falling (!?)

I remember so many times, mostly early-on in my professional life in marketing and communications, when the sky was falling and I played the roll of, or professionally promoted the sentiment of, Chicken Little.  It happened in the politically-hyper, left-right roller coaster of DC during the early-90s.  It happened in the anti-gravity, upward waves of NASDAQ in techie-Boston during the mid-90s.  It happened in the late-90s when suddenly the world wide web went mainstream and it was hard for us mere marketers to figure (for sure) what was up, down or sideways.

After 2000 rolled around, I got married, then built a house, then eventually had better-living-though-chemistry twins.  Not much phases me after that last part.  Drama over.  How do I know?

The sky is literally falling and nobody cares.  Well, it's not so much that nobody cares...

See, in our old house (the brand-new, custom-built, all-in-working-order one), a small pool of unexplained water or a problematic grout corner -- it mattered.  You saw it. You put on your troubleshooting hat and fixed it (like NOW) or called someone to fix it (like YESTERDAY).

Now?  Not so much.  The sky is falling.  No, really.  Chunks of ceiling are literally falling down.

You've already heard about the gift that keeps on giving in the tavern.  (Four Floors & A Ceiling)  We're walking, we're walking... Keep up!

In the central hall, the seemed-like-a-good-idea-in-the-70s "textured" swirly plaster is literally sloughing off, leaving sunken continents of "vintage" plaster.  The mystery-fiber ceiling in the northeast-facing sunroom?  Sagging pitifully in long-ago soaked areas.  The paint on the ceilings in five of the six rooms with actual dry wall on the upper plain?  Peeling.  Coming off in odd chips in places where the deltas of heat and cold and dry and damp finally dealt the death knell to the elasticity of eggshell.  And bubbling off in strangely roller-shaped swaths where someone decided to touch-up a smokey corner or draft-dusted doorway with oil-based Hatfield over latex McCoy.

And then there's the spot -- it's more of an "area" actually -- right over the head of our bed.  At some point pre-last-chimney and/or pre-last-roof, there was a leak.  And there's evidence of it in the ceiling just there.  There's no active water now, but the strata of previously abused materials take umbrage with changes in humidity.  When the dew point approaches "air you can wear", little pieces of ceiling soak up the sogginess and PLOP.  It suddenly becomes too much for gravity to ignore.  And a hunk or pebble or bit falls.  Onto my head or pillow, or some other area of ear-destined bedding.  It's like spitballs from heaven.

And yet, I feel no utter compulsion to fix it NOW.  Or to call anyone in particular.  Is it my twin-addled mommy-mind?   Is it my been-there-done-that political/communications attitude spilling over?  Or maybe there's just so much to do here at TOPH, that my brain-transmission is firmly in D (for denial.)  Whatever.

Yep.  The sky is definitely falling.  And I'm OK with it... for now.