The House Has Had All It's Going to Take

I asked Beloved Spouse what I should write about tonight. He thought for a moment and said, "Why don't you write about how the shower is trying to kill me?"

Not just in the movies, people.

It's true. The shower in the master bath has developed a major problem with BelSpouse. I don't know what went on between them. Frankly, I don't want to know. I've seen some of his hygiene rituals that don't involve being safely hidden behind a plastic curtain. It's entirely possible the shower just decided it it wasn't going to be subjected to the trauma any more.

In any event, it all started a week or two ago. BelSpouse was taking a shower, and I was sitting in the family room, reading Kierkegaard and sipping chamomile tea. Or scrolling through TMZ.com while guzzling my fifth cup of coffee. That's not important. What is important is that I heard a yell from the other side of the house. Sort of a "YOWCH."

Yowch.

Drawing on my years of experience as a mother, I ignored it. "Yowch" is a pretty mild interjection, and it wasn't accompanied by the sound of flesh hitting tile. I figured BelSpouse had accidentally pulled out a couple of pubes while soaping his parts, or something of that nature.

Then, a half a minute later, I heard it again. This time it was more of a "YAAAAH."


Yaaaah.

 This was getting interesting.

Just not interesting enough to stop reading about Halle Berry's custody battle.

Eventually I heard the shower turn off and BelSpouse get out. So he was alive. Then he called out to me.

Ms. Baudelaire, come here, I need you.
I can't get this bong to work right.

So I went to the bathroom to see what the deal was. "Come in here," he said gravely. Or as gravely as one can say anything dripping wet with a towel wrapped around oneself. "I want you to feel something."

Great. Now I'm thinking: tumor, cyst, fibroid, welt, scab, any of a dozen nasty things that I was prepared to be sympathetic about without actual physical contact. Or maybe this was just an elaborate come-on that was going to end in some lame joke about his "terrible swelling."


Amiright, ladies?


Instead he took me to the shower, turned on the water, and said - I'm not kidding - "Put your hand on the faucet and see if you get a shock."

What.

Pardon me, old boy, but...dafuq?


Well, you don't get an offer like that every day. Besides, he wasn't dead, which I figured was a point in my favor. So I put my hand under the running water and touched the metal faucet that BelSpouse clearly believed had a good chance of eletrocuting me.

Nothing happened.

He seemed a little disappointed, which I have to admit was kind of insulting. But to be a good sport, I turned the water pressure up, then rested my hand on the faucet. Nope.

"I swear to God, that thing shocked me," BelSpouse said. Again leaving aside the fact that he had just encouraged me to place my hand on what he thought was an electrified plumbing fixture, I tried to be understanding.

"Maybe it was just vibration," I suggested.

He seemed skeptical.

"If there was actually current flowing through the shower, we probably wouldn't be having this conversation," I pointed out.

Finally he had to admit I was right.


I was gracious in victory, as always.

 Except it happened again. According to BelSpouse, it's happened a dozen times or more. It happens almost every time he gets in the shower now. When he touches the faucet or adjusts the shower head, he feels what he swears is a shock.

I use the same shower every single day. (OK, possibly while I was unemployed there were a couple of days I might have passed on showering. If I was going to be a bum, I was going to look and smell the part.)  I have yet to experience anything like a shock. Or a strong vibration. Or any sensation besides getting wet.

I've tried to feel it. I've willed myelf to feel it. I'm either a terrible conductor of electricity, or one of us is crazy. Besides me.


So it can't be me, is what I'm saying.

Or maybe it's just that the house really is trying to kill my husband. In which case I'm getting on the horn with TLC, because there is totally a reality show here. "My Fixtures Are Trying to Kill Me." "Household Vengeance." "Don't Pick Up the Soap, Although You May As Well Because One Way or Another You're Screwed in This Shower."

All I know is, there will no more late-night hot wings for me. I'm doing my best to stay on the bathroom's good side.