In Hot Water Again

Except, NOT. Except, I WISH. Because I believe that's what I signed up for when I signed the lease agreement for 22 fucking Nelson Street. I know I'm not making much sense now but I'll get to that in a minute.

Okay, minute's up.

Let me refer to a few earlier posts to make complete sense here. In this post, I told you guys all about the flaws that came with this tiny apartment of ours. But one thing I forgot to mention was our boiler/gas heating situation. The thing is, like the exhaust fan in our bathroom (which by the way, has kind of stopped working now and every time we turn it on, there's a smell of something burning), our boiler also suffers from terrible mood swings. You feel sorry for The Husband because he has to live with me? Well try living with this boiler. She gets her period thrice a month.

Every once in a while (or let's say thrice a month), we manage to shock ourselves with ice-cold water because our boiler malfunctions (find an elaborate story here). Whenever that happens, the victim inside screams "THE WATER, GODDAMIT!" to the lucky spouse outside. And when we get to her, there she'd be, flicking us off with her red flashing lights. So what happens when you decide to shower when you're home alone? You first turn on the shower while you're still fully clothed and wait to see if the water is actually warm so that you don't have to walk half-naked to the other room to fix it if it splashes ice-cold vengeance at you. And then, you pray. You fall on your knees and pray that she doesn't start PMS-ing right when you're under the merciless shower. I tell you, this boiler has almost scared me back into religion!

So last Friday, I performed my little prayer ritual before taking the risky leap into the shower. All was well, I had music playing in the background and I was singing along, completely oblivious to the evil plans of She Who Bleeds Thrice A Month. I then turned off the shower while I lathered myself in soap because long ago, I had made a promise to myself that I wouldn't waste water. Also, let me tell you a little something about how I lather myself from head to toe. You see, it's in the shower that the all too famous Indian obsession with being white kicks in for me. The British may have left us alone more than half a century ago but Fair and Lovely teaches us that we should never stop aspiring to be white (on the outside only thank you very much). Which is why I lather myself in white foam from head to toe and pretend to be a white walker woman. Because let's face it, that's as white as I'll ever get.

So last Friday in the shower, I go ahead and do just that, after which I turn on the shower. This time, I was totally unsuspecting of what was quite literally going to hit my in the face. And the rest of my body. ICY NEEDLES THROUGH A 5 FOOT TALL SHORT BODY.


I was in so much shock that I stood there, waiting and praying for the water to miraculously turn warm. Nothing happened. I knew I had to do the half-naked walk of shame to Her Highness Boilsmyfuckingblood while I was still covered in white soapy foam for the most part. I had just changed the towels because Friday is Fresh-Towel-Day in 22 Nelson Street and I really didn't want to drape one around me. I loved my fresh towel and I didn't want it to absorb all that soapy lather before I even got to use it once. But I did it, leaving a trail of soap behind me, and almost slipping and falling on my ass-et because of course, I had soap under my feet. Now I know how Cersie Lannister felt when she took that walk of shame. Just replace all the poop with soap. But I feel she still got the better deal because she only had to do it ONCE. Remind me again, why am I still living in this house?