A journey with a leaking ceiling

When the dishwasher was running, I would stare at the ceiling in the second bedroom. This wasn't exactly fun, watching paint dry would be more entertaining. Yet, I couldn't tear my eyes off the corners for the small electrical box that was cut into the ceiling. A small cord that connects to the now dismantled smoke detector sprouted out of the box like a twiggy weed in a crack of concrete. I would stare and observe this small patch of exposed wire incessantly - waiting for something awful to happen.
My new bad habit was formed one afternoon when all the smoke detectors in the house simultaneously screeched out their cries of alarm. I was cleaning the kitchen and the mechanical screaming shoved me into a panic, wondering what had caught on fire. I saw no smoke but still opened every window and sliding door, hoping that would shut the detectors up. It did no good, only allowing the cold February winter air to seep into the condo.
The things continued to spiral as I heard the smoke detector in the second bedroom begin to crackle and make fizzing noises. I watched a few drops of water drip from its center. My heart sunk. I dialed my father.
He arrived and exclaimed that it was freezing in my house. After effectively silencing the smoke detectors, we pondered what could have sprouted a leak and made the the smoke alarms erupt with squeels. Not the laundry machine or the upstairs' half-bath. We concluded it could have been the dishwasher. My father advised that I run the dishwasher and see what happens.
So when my silverware drawer ran out of forks, I apprehensively turned the appliance on. It was the longest wash cycle I've endured but the ceiling ramained dry. Before my father would return to reinstall the smoke detector, the dishwasher would be run one more time. Once again, there were no horrific drips from the ceiling. But then later that night, I heard spine-shuttering noise of water pattering on floorboards. Standing on my desk chair, I held a hand towel to the cieling until the water disappeared.
That did it. I could bear it no longer -  I called a plumber and felt confident a pro could solve it. He came with a ladder and a knife, carefully cut a section of the ceiling and informed me there was no plumbing above the second bedroom and the drips were most likely caused by condension from the bathroom's exhaust fan. His final contribution was a suggestion that I get some insulation and put it underneath the piping for the fan. A good piece of information but still I tried not to think about the fact that I just paid $125 for nothing more than some simple advise and a big hole.
My father once again came to provide some aid. With a strip of Pepto-Bismal pink insulation, a tub of compond and roll of tape, he installed the insulation and sealed up the hole.
It's a relief knowing my newest debacle is almost resolved - that I am almost back to where I started. Of course, ending where you began is not all the interesting but certainly the journey from start to finish will be remembered.