What is it about announcing, “I’m taking a shower,” to one’s family that seems to serve as an open invitation to wash a large sinkful of dishes, water the lawn, throw in a load of laundry, flush the toilet, or all of the above?
Perhaps your residence is different than my own humble abode, but in our not-quite-twenty-year-old home a flush, or any household water usage for that matter, must be preceded by a warning. Let me explain.
At this point in our lives, we have rented, owned, lived in, or homesteaded dozens of homes and never, in any of these locations, has the toilet and shower worked autonomously from the rest of the water delivery system(s). Our experience has shown us that few, if any, plumbing systems co-exist peacefully with the various water outlets installed in the average dwelling. What’s worse, the same combination of activities – taking a shower while the commode is being flushed or brushing one’s teeth while the shower is on – does not generate the same punishment at any given time.
The flush may send me screaming from the shower with early signs of frostbite, but it’s equally as likely that I will exit my watery torment with a decidedly sunburned hue because the water registered a Fahrenheit just slightly cooler than freshly spewed lava.
This random temperature pattern seems to be some sort of water company version of Morse code for which I, evidently, need a plumber to decipher said code. While the hydrology of the situation never makes sense, it does lead to some creative choreography in the shower, evoking images of Twyla Tharp, Martha Graham and Bob Fosse, particularly if they lived in places where the shower did not play well with any other water-distributing devices. In my efforts to elude the quick step painful temperature change I have executed many a seemingly impossible leap, turn and jeté, making me appear as though I’m auditioning as a dancer for an aquatic Broadway musical.
One of the questions that may be prudent to ask when purchasing a home, along with, “How many bedrooms are there?, “Is there air conditioning?”, or “Do rabid raccoons run rampant?” might be, “Are you able to flush the toilet at the same time as someone in another part of the house is sprucing up in the shower without having to engage in hydro-dodgeball?” This may not seem critical, but if you share space with active children or a family member who just plain drinks a great deal of water, well, you can figure out the ramifications of such a situation. I’d rather take on the rabid raccoon running rampant.
A shower can be a relaxing time of respite from the usual stressors and commitments that life offers, taking full advantage of positive ions – or so people have told me. I don’t want to give the impression that this situation has been all bad because it has led to some positive adaptations, such as my unique talent of being able to soap up my hair, armpits and feet simultaneously. In addition to enhancing my ambidexterity I have also gained a weapon in my already-fully-stocked marital arsenal. Shower Power!
Having been irritated with my husband once or twice during the course of our heavenly union, our bathing facilities have provided me with a tactical plus during spirited discussions with my spouse. The fact that, during my slight pique, I have found an absolute need to flush the privy during his hair shampooing sequence is an unlucky happenstance...for him. It’s also the ultimate payback for any situation and, while I am not particularly proud to admit that I have used the “shower power” weapon when I’ve felt miffed, it has been an effective ploy.
The last word becomes the last flush, if you will. (I have also learned that just a teensy bit of running water – just enough to use for brushing one’s teeth, say – will do the trick as well.) There’s nothing like a nice high-pitched, “Arrggghhh! What happened to the freaking water temperature?!” to really make a woman feel as strong as two-ply toilet paper. That’s when I’m feeling really flush.
also happens to be a school. This is when the real hilarity begins.
After parking, I hope against hope that the blanket has managed to dislodge itself. Huh-uh. No such luck. It must weigh three hundred pounds at this point, with the rain soaking it, making it extra sticky with all of that nice dog hair and mud. There it is. Wound tightly. Mocking me.
I resign myself to a lack of closure on my tire issue and go teach a class or two. Admittedly I’m a tad distracted so I decide to get proactive and call the on-campus automotive teacher for some professional counsel. After he gets done laughing, he informs me that a couple of his students would be only too happy to help me (translation: laugh at me), so drive on over to the auto shop.
By this time I am not only a fashion “don’t” I am a fashion abomination. My hair has become a dismal reflection of the kind of day I am having. It’s lank, lifeless and dripping hair products at an alarming rate. Rarely have I ever gone backwards in my beauty routine so early in the day. Few vestiges of my facial make-up remain and I have even less of a semblance of a hairstyle. I hoof it out to my car, experiencing the fine sensation of seeping clothing. I am so wet that my hosiery is making an attractive sucking sound in my shoes like that which is emitted by movie star swamp animals. I persevere, even though I know that I am not going to be voted “Middle-Aged Beauty on Campus,” (coincidentally, this same situation will also guarantee that I will not be up for any “brainiac” awards either).
Out of viable choices, I continue my journey to the auto shop and am met by two unlucky teens who disgorge themselves from their class, where they seem barely conscious, something I’m sure is not the teacher’s fault. (Perhaps as a teacher I am biased?) They look at me incredulously after I tell them my story, get the vehicle turbo jacked-up on the lifty-thing and commence to helping me with my problem. Except I have no problem. Well, no pink blankie problem anyway. After I apologize profusely and the students try very hard not to laugh, I drive around in search of the offensive blanket that is out to get me. In the name of all that is holy, how can that tenacious piece of wool that I spent thirty minutes attempting to drop off in the space of a three-minute drive from one parking lot to another?
I had a hard time accepting the fact that the blankie was now M.B.I.A. – Missing Blankie In Action, even though, given the way things play out in my life, it made perfect sense. I decided to cruise the many parking lots that surround our school to see if perhaps it had gotten dragged around by some other poor sap, morphed itself into a car cover or some other viable reason for its departure, but, alas, I was rewarded with not one pink blankie sighting. It just goes to show you that this situation is no different than any other situation we encounter in life, whether it’s a pink blankie, the potato masher or a man who dances – they’re never there when you really need them.
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