The new school term began and the incoming class is huge, three times the size of my class now that our classmates who have dropped out are gone but not forgotten. I think I mentioned before that the particular program I’m in has a 30-50% dropout rate. I passed this new group of students in their first period hall and because I am more the age of a teacher than a student they sat up straight when I entered the room and welcomed them to the school as I passed through. After I was upstairs I realized they expected me to sit down at the desk in front instead of booking it across the room which explains the general deer-in-the-headlights gaze that followed me. I wish them well and hope to see all of them still here next semester.
Our bathroom renovation is done and it is thrilling to have everything brand new and best of all, finished. When Husband and I first talked about gutting our 1950s era bathroom, I declared that I wanted fixtures that were anything but white; white was so pedestrian. If you’re going to do this once-in-a-lifetime update go for bisque or almond or whatever but no white, right? The ending of the story is the contractor said he could start in three days and we found out the only color available without being special ordered was white. So the toilet, sink and jet tub are white. They look terrific. I’m ashamed for being so prejudiced. If any of my readers are basic appliances please consider this my apology.
When two people fall in love and marry it soon becomes apparent the ways in which they differ. One is regular, one is decaf. One eats fruit, the other Twinkies. One is an early riser, the other a vampire. Compromises are reached and love is deepened. Then an area appears that is so fraught with memory, experience and need that it threatens to rock the boat so smoothly sailing. An area like shower heads.
Husband likes a halo of water. I like a cannon. As a young mother, the shower was the only place I was truly alone. My ex was at work, the children were napping, and I could stand motionless under the blissful needles of water forcing negative ions of energy into my pores. Not only is the pressure of the water paramount but it also has to pulse, spray and stream steadily however I want it to and wherever I want it to for reasons you needn’t concern yourself with. Women’s rights groups back in the day used to proclaim that our body is a temple but I always thought that was only half right. Our shower with our body in it is a temple.
Always on the lookout for the perfect shower head to suit all of our needs, Husband and I write down brand names from hotels and B&Bs we’ve visited and research them online to see where they’re available for purchase. We’ve ordered, installed and returned half a dozen. The one we have now is only okay. Because my shower mania is shared by Son, he called the other day from his new address at the house he’s renting with friends.
SON: It arrived today. The Fire Hydrant Presidential. The box weighed like ten pounds.
OSV: You ordered a 10-pound shower head? What’s it like?
SON: It’s amazing. No, it surpasses amazing. It’s so powerful I can barely stay under it. It requires strength just to stand there. You couldn’t handle it. It would blow you out of the shower.
OSV: Really? Really?
SON: And that’s on medium. I haven’t even tried it on high. High is for elephants.
If low is a halo of water we could be in business.
City Looks via Daughter’s Featured Fotos
dress made of tiles
jesus in the window
industry
5th & broadway