Showering, that is. Or waking up at all. I am not a morning person. Never have been. Never will be. I have a serious and documented medical condition (caused my asthma, in some freaky way, no less) that makes it so I do not experience any REM sleep during a normal night’s rest—or lack of it, as it were. Which is why I fly in to work at the crack of 8:30 every morning. I am not lazy, except for when I am.

Additionally, I’ll be honest here—I’m not really one for the act of showering. I do it, daily, but don’t expect me to be happy about it. And, don’t get me wrong—the cleanliness is of utmost priority and longing, except for maybe on Saturday sometimes after 3:00 p.m., but I hate the idea of taking at least an hour out of the day just to primp—of which 90% is spent restructuring prior to and after the shower—even though I know the end result will feel squeaky and stuff.

Since I moved into my current quarters, or sixteenths, have had a hard go of trying to acclimate myself to the shower that really isn’t. If I am going to do it—shower—and since I most generally do, I want the process to be as seamless and non-obstructive as possible. An a non-obstructive sense, I want (but haven’t had, going on eight months now, oh and also, air conditioning, and also can you say slumlord? Because really.) the water to be hot, the towel to be clean, and the air to consist of about negative-seventeen-percent humidity upon commencement of post-primpage. I sincerely and greatly desire the water to drain quietly and effortlessly from the tub and for the porcelain to glimmer in pristinely clean condition in the growing daylight. That would make the whole thing easier. Really, it would. Would’ve.

But as you can see (click for larger version on flickr), the current plumbing is somewhat less-than-desirable in the ease of use category. I am 4′10″ quite liberally, and I have to lean a certain crick-including way to avoid head-bonking against the overhang that is quite unfortunately part of the roof structure or I would have sledgehammered that brother long ago. That’s short. You’ll also note that the shower itself is not so much a shower as it is a clumsily fashioned hose-attached-to-tub-spout device. Over the past eight months, I have made this work, I really have. Not so quietly at times, but still, I’ve made it work.

Except remember that whole “draining quietly and effortlessly” thing? Not so much happening, as of Saturday, most likely after 3:00 p.m., because I did shower on Saturday. I promise. (And remember that whole “no more air conditioning for Ashley” thing? Yeah. Still kind of a problem. I’m not bitter.) So. In regards to the day-old bathwater footsoak I was wont to avoid, Saturday night, I did the only thing reasonable and I poured an entire bottle of generic Drano (I was having my doubts for a while that the only thing it was good for was spilling on and ruining fabulous items of my and others’ clothing) and aimed as closely as I could to the drain. And then I went to bed.

Sunday morning, the water had not budged and I had to summon up all kinds of Sabbathy courage to stick my hand into the drain to see if there might be some kind of foreign or monetary (would be sweet, no?) substance blocking the water’s escape route. I was up to my elbows in day-old showerwater (didn’t say it would be a pretty story, did I?) when my cute little bendy fingers were met by a substance neither monetary or pliable in nature. There was something gross and calcified (though I’m pretty sure it didn’t involve any calcium OR taste like a Flintstone vitamin) and groooooooody in the drain.

So I poked at it with a wire hanger. And I left it.

Except, Sunday evening? The water had not budged. And while foregoing the shower on a Sunday is perfectly acceptable in terms of Sunday’s binding and lawful agreement with doing nothing but getting one’s worship on, Monday has made a strict and evil request for cleanliness and promptitude involving said shower. So, begrudgingly, I awakened super-extra-early and drove to a friend’s house to bathe. Do you know how ridiculous that is? That I should spend FOURTEEN.THOUSAND.DOLLARS on gasoline to fuel an early-morning trip to someone elses home to bathe? It’s ridiculous, if you were wondering.

And I’ve made do the rest of the week. I don’t want to go into those details. It’s been a painful and draining (har) time.

So now my passive-aggressiveness doesn’t know what to do with itself. Calls to the landlord have gone unanswered and voicemails unreturned. An email, about the air conditioning dearth, dated 26 July and sent that day to my landlord has gone unanswered. He, surprisingly, cashed my rent check. And now we’re nearly upon the cusp of a new month. And the law says I can withhold rent but that it’s “RISKY” and I’m not so much all over that. There are holes in the drywall in the stairwell. The promised fire extinguisher has never arrived. I had to put the blinds up myself. The air conditioner still does not work and the people downstairs (other renters) have a dog, who keeps my dog up all hours of the night by carrying on very loud conversations, probably about the new Weimeraner next door and how cute he is and does Ethel think he thinks she’s cute? BUT NO ONE CARES SHUT UP AND TALK ABOUT IT WHILE I AM AT WORK.

So Monday was rough, but the overpowering issue at hand is that of the cooperation issues my landlord seems to be struggling with. Against everything holy and good, Monday, I walked into work at 7:45 and Bryce, after first resolving that I wouldn’t maybe cry or scream, said gently and sweetly, “Satan called. He says hell has frozen over.”

And really, that’s no way to start a morning, now is it?