Running Hot and Cold

Sunday morning, we had no hot water.  Not a drop.  Which in a strange way, almost made me happy.  Almost.  Well, maybe not so much.  All right, it kind of ticked me off, but it was still better than the alternative which totally ticked me off and has been for the past year.

It all began the day we moved in...

Being type A personalities (or just incredibly unlucky and stupid), we moved in on a weekend where we had three black tie dinners.  Three weeks before Christmas.  And it was snowing.  We had hit the trifecta.

So after a full day of hauling, lifting, unpacking and generally running around like nuts, we needed to clean up and glam up.  I opened the shower door, turned the knob and...ahhh...nice hot water came gushing out.

Oooh, maybe a bit too hot.  I turned it down.  Still too hot.  Waaay too hot.  I turned it down again.  Yeow! Scalding hot.  Not good.  I turned it down to a trickle.  Aargh!!  Now it felt like I was standing beneath a blowtorch.  In the middle of the Sahara.  At high noon.

 While I still had some skin left, I stepped out and yelled for Tim, who, after twisting and turning the knob eighty-six times (and calling me an idiot for not knowing how to work the shower) was not able to get any different results.  He then cursed it out, but oddly, that didn't work either.  Go figure.

Since time was wasting, and we didn't particularly feel like spending the night in the burn unit, we called the plumber who had installed the shower.  FYI, late Saturday afternoon during a snowstorm is not a good time to try and get a plumber to come to your house.  But he did come eventually.  Grudgingly.  Very grudgingly.  Extremely grudgingly. Oh, and he was really, really miffed.

He stomped into the house, mumbling and grousing to himself in such a Shrek-like manner, I expected to see Donkey trotting along at his heels.  And he pretty  much  called us idiots for not knowing how to work the shower.  Then, he tried to work the shower.

He turned it on.  Hot water.  Off.  On.  Hotter water.  Off.  On.  Boiling hot water.  Off. On.  Off.  On.  So who's the idiot now?  And by the way, as entertaining as this exhibition is, pal, we've sort of covered this ground ourselves about ninety-six dozen times.  Do you think you could maybe, oh, I don't know, use one or two of those watch-a-ma-call-ems, tools? to FIX THE SHOWER?  Otherwise, you are not going to be the only crabby person around here, and I bet that Tim and I can throw a hissy fit that will make yours look like you are Julie Andrews singing "Spoonful of Sugar".

Huffing, puffing and still muttering under his breath, Mr. Personality made several trips back and forth from his truck to the shower, used one of his lifelines to call his boss, polled the studio audience, scratched his head and finally came to the brilliant conclusion that the shower was broken.

NO!  Reallly?  Are you sure?  Maybe you can turn it on and off again just to be certain.

And he was full of yet more good news.  He would have to order the part and it would take at least a week!  Yippee!!!

As it was now barely an hour before we were supposed to leave, he suggested we use another bathroom in the house.  Gee, why didn't I think of that?  Oh.  I know.  Maybe because this is the only one that doesn't need a shower curtain which I don't have, or face an uncovered window.  I mean, I'd like to get to know the neighbors, but I was thinking more of treating them to a few snacks and drinks, not a strip tease.

So we rushed to CVS, dug out some old sheets and spent the next week waiting for the part, which, once installed worked for about three seconds.  Then it didn't work.  Then it did.  Didn't.  Did.  Mr. Happy came back and fixed it so that it worked.  Didn't work.  Did...

And so for the last year, showering has been a grand adventure.  Every morning, with great anticipation, I prepare my burn kit, opened the shower door and, with fingers crossed, reach for the knob.  I turn the water on: too hot.  Off.  On quickly; hot.  Off quickly, then on again.  32 left, 56 right, 14 left.  Jump on one leg while reciting the alphabet backwards, then say abracadabra and wave the soap over the handle three times counterclockwise.  Ahhh.  Just right.

We've also had a parade of plumbers besides Mr. Grumpy.  There's been Misters Sleepy, Sneezy, Goofy, Nutty and Dopey, but still no Mr. Fix-it.

So when cold water came out on Sunday, I was pleasantly surprised...until I turned blue.  Hmmm. Red or blue.  Great.  Slap a star on my head and I'm all set for the holiday.

As it happened, it wasn't just our shower though, it was the hot water heater at fault this time. 

My parents were visiting, so my dad and I went down to the basement, checked it out, read the directions to reboot it, and followed them to a T.  Turn it off, then on, hold the buttons for one second, then press the cold button until it says warm (Really?).  Off again, on again, hold, press hot.  Aaaaack!  It was a plumbing conspiracy to see which appliance/fixture could give me apoplexy first.

I had no choice though.  Like a trained seal, I flipped switches, pressed buttons, kicked the unit (I added that little touch all by myself) and we still had cold water.

Tim came down and repeated the whole process except instead of kicking it and re-injuring his back, he showed it his middle finger and renamed it a four-letter word.  And we still had cold water.

Finally, we exhausted all of our resources (and our vocabulary and knowledge of profane hand gestures) and had to call a plumber (again), because we still had cold water.

In the meantime, Tom (Tim's brother), stopped by and offered to take a crack at it.  Sure.  Be our guest.  If you want your blood pressure to soar like a rocket and that vein on your head to burst, then who are we to kill your fun?

He went downstairs, unplugged the unit, plugged it back in, did not turn it off and on; did not press any buttons; did not follow any directions, and did not call a plumber.  And the heater started working again.

We've torn up the plumber's number and from now on, we're just going to call Tom.  Maybe next week, he can take a crack at the shower.

How to Get Out of Volunteering in One Easy Lesson

Tim is not the only one in the family who has found themselves "volunteering" at mass. It happened once before to his brother. As far as I can tell, it's a "twin thing".

Several years ago, the three of us were innocently strolling into church when Tom was waylaid by an usher and pressed into service. They wanted him to help pass the basket for the weekly collection.

First, he tried playing dumb. How did one do that? he enquired. Was there a certain procedure he had to follow? When, exactly, was the collection taken up? (I'm pretty sure he would have asked what a basket was if he thought he could get away with it.)

With a nice-try-but-you're-not-getting- out-of-it smile and a reassuring pat, the usher gave detailed instructions and sent us on our way.

Tom's next tactic was to try and talk Tim into taking his place.

They'll never know it's you and not me, he pleaded desperately. You're better at this kind of thing than I am. Besides, he concluded, playing what he obviously believed to be his trump card, I'm wearing shorts and you have long pants on. That means you should do it.

Hmm. You can't take up the collection while wearing shorts. Was that rule in the King James version of the bible, or the New Catholic edition?

Giving him a nice-try-but-there-is-no-way-on-God's-green-earth-that-I-am-doing-this look, Tim settled down smugly into his seat.

And so, Tom eventually subsided into a grumpy silence where he continued to brood over the whole collection issue. You could almost hear the wheels in his brain churning.

Actually, we did hear something. About half-way through the mass, during one of the quieter moments, Tom grumbled, "I have to get up, walk to the front of the church, pick up a (not so nice word) basket, bow, and start at the first pew."

Heads swiveled, mouths gaped open, eyes grew wide, breaths were sharply indrawn with audible gasps. A full heartbeat passed before Tom realized he was the center of much unwanted attention. Coloring a lovely shade of pre-dawn pink, he leaned over to us and, keeping his eyes firmly fixed forward, asked out of the side of his mouth, "Was that out loud?"

Um, yeah, kind of.

I don't believe he was ever asked to take up the collection again.