I am living in fear of my shower head. Sure, sure, laugh it up, but this thing is out for blood.
It is one of those detachable shower heads, specifically called a "shower massager," and is rumored to have the capability of being a girl's best friend. (I'm sure I don't know why)
However, mine, which is held together by some manner of tape thanks to my ghetto landlord, is the polar opposite of being a girl's best friend.
Oh, and just as an aside, how friggin' sleazy are landlords? It never occurred to me that one day I would include landlords in the annals with used car salesman and FOX News journalists, but that is where they are in my psyche now. They are either around WAAAY too much or WAAAY too little. There is no middle ground,and the only way you can get them to do anything, apparently, is to sleep with them, and that's really no choice at all. Anyway, I digress.
Let me explain about my shower head.
A regular occurrence: It's shower time; I'm excited. Showers serve to both wake me up and allow me to sing at full volume, as my roommate is hardly ever home when I am in the shower. So, I get to enjoy our marvelous water pressure and sing Fiona Apple as loud as I want.
Then, the trouble begins. Halfway through the happy shower and just at the part when I start to bray, "Let me know the way...before there's hell to pay...," the shower head comes out of its little holster and tries to hit me in the head while simultaneously spraying the ceiling and hitting the cold water spigot, so that not only is it flailing around the tub, it's shooting out near-boiling water. So that if the initial bonk on the head doesn't kill me, it will at least scald the shit out of me.
Now, this is a problem.It has also frequently attacked my roommate and her boyfriend, and I feel like we're becoming prisoners in our own bathroom. We can't not take showers, but now, every time I'm in there, I anticipate at any moment that it's going to snake out of its little holder and attempt homicide again.
It must be stopped.
On another note, I began my much-awaited guitar lessons last week, and they were a little disappointing, but I'm trying not to dwell on it.
I think because I was so excited and anxious, that the actual lesson was a bit of a letdown.
My teacher, a 40-ish lifelong picker, was slightly condescending to me, remarking that "my nails were real pretty," had to be cut in order to fully strum the guitar. He went on to say something about "manicures being okay if you want to be fancy" or some such crap.
Okay, I have a manicure exactly once in my whole life, so, I dunno who this guy has me confused with, but I think he may be operating under a gross misapprehension that I'm some sort of princess-y type girl, and that is so not the case.
Then, I felt super-stupid because I don't know anything.
I'm sure you're thinking to yourself, "Of course you don't know anything; that's why you're taking lessons," and you would be right. I just didn't expect to know even less than I thought I did. It's very disconcerting.
But, I've been practicing, and I'm going to give Mister Bad Attitude teacher another week and see what happens. Otherwise, I will be looking for a new mentor, and this teacher can imagine that I'm sitting on a throne of diamonds somewhere being fanned. yea right.
On a final note, I am reading the most awesome book right now, and I highly recommend it. John Irving's "Until I Find You." It is so amazingly good, and I really only just started it.
I hope someday I can write 1/4 as well as Irving can, because this is one of those books that, not only am I enjoying the story, I'm in stupefied awe at the way he writes, just the way the sentences are set up.
And if you read that, you should also check out his books, "A Widow for One Year" and "The Hotel New Hampshire." They are amazing.
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