Yesterday I went out with my friend and helped him pick up tile, a new duvet, new artwork, and new outdoor chaise lounges for his new place. The new place is shaping up to be pretty snazzy, and one of the chaise lounges is for me, to lure me to central Phoenix from my tropical oasis in Mesa.
If "tropical oasis" and "Mesa" are not concepts that go together in your mind, you are not alone. It costs me a small fortune in dues to a tyrannical HOA to live next to a pond that is dyed--yes, dyed--an otherworldly shade of blue-green. It may be a grubby little unsustainable oasis, but it's mine for a sum of money so large that I am embarrassed to disclose it.
Since he's actively buying furniture to attract my company, it seemed rude to complain about the things he hasn't done around my place. Like the upstairs shower that hasn't worked in three months. Or the upstairs sink that now emits a reassuring gurgle only half an hour after I've gone to bed to let me know that the two tablespoons of water with which I rinsed my toothbrush have finally gone down the drain. My friend is not under the slightest, most tenuous obligation to fix these things. Still, he promised, and they are getting annoying. So I might have mentioned them until I saw his shower.
He JUST moved into this place, and the shower in the master bathroom developed mold. Contractors came to apply some kind of mold cure to the shower, and now there is a gracious waiting period to see if the mold reasserts itself. My friend, who is occasionally prone to exaggeration, told me his shower was "essentially gone." I opened the door to the bathroom expecting a loose tile or two, and instead I found myself looking at what's under all that tile, fiberglass, and porcelain that we normally associate with the word "shower." It was shocking--a little like finding out all the steps between a cow grazing in a field and your styrofoam package of steak.
So I've decided two things. One, I will try the scary percussive liquid plumber thingy that I purchased for the benefit of my upstairs sink. I am really, really scared of my sink, but after the scary percussive thing has discharged, one of us will be the other one's bitch. I may have to phone someone just so they can call 911 while I give that a whirl, but I will do it on my own, before things start to actively climb out of the drain and try to kill me in my sleep. And two, I'll just keep showering downstairs for a while. At least until his shower is fixed. Because let's face it, I have NO problems compared to a man whose shower is not just naked, but stripped to the bone.