On Friday night, Ned and I were having a night in, as part of our fiscal responsibility plan. I was making salmon the way I like it (coated in brown sugar, balsamic vinegar and pretentious brown mustard), new potatoes and a big salad with dressing just the way I like it (grapeseed oil, apple cider vinegar and garlic powder).
June's cooking blog. Come for the recipes. Stay for the angry rod story.
Ned, of course, wanted to work out first, which gave me plenty of time to do important things like read Allure. Finally, it was time for my shower so I'd be all sanitary to greet Ned, then I'd start the potatoes.
When I walked into the goddamn shower, the goddamn shower curtain rod had collapsed. Again.
A few weeks back, I walked into my roomy bathroom (you get more square footage on a plane. There isn't even enough room in that bathroom to change your mind. I can't even get fluffy toilet paper, it takes up too much space. We're talking not a large bathroom.) and my damn shower curtain had fallen. I'd twisted it this way and that and was about to go get a new one when Ned came over and did something decided and manly and the rod went right back up.
And now here it was again, lying drunkenly in my tub, the shower curtain getting all bendy.
"@%%&#," I said, as I tried to emulate Ned's decided and manly pull on the rod. So to speak. "&&#%$!!" I added, as it once again fell down. I must have spent 15 minutes standing there trying to move that thing, and of course it kept hitting all the walls of that spacious room, which knocked things over and eventually broke my shaving cream can, and in all I was in a mood.
I ended up taking a shower out in the open, with no curtain, like I was in one of those movies where people clean themselves under a waterfall, except for the part where they don't have to get out and wipe every surface of their giant bathroom.
It turns out, bad shower experiences make me decidedly crabby. I also get really furious when there's no hot water. I mean, all I'm asking for is a nice shower. I'm not asking for the world. I'm not asking for a pink diamond and a designer dress and Sarah Jessica Parker's new shoes. Okay, of course I'm asking for all that. But I'm also just asking for a decent shower. Just eight minutes of hot water that stays put in the general vacinity of the tub. Is that a lot to ask? Is it?
Did I ever tell you about that time after I ran that marathon in 2000? There was a big party after, for everyone who'd run it, and they stupidly had said party on the second level of some restaurant, so every attendee had to crabwalk sideways to get up the steps into the party. YOU try running 26.2 miles, see if you're not a tad stiff after.
My point is, this guy at the party said, "Oh, god, it was so good to get back to my hotel and shower after that run. That's the second-most refreshing shower I've ever had."
....! You guys. Why, why did I not ask him what the first-most refreshing shower was? Because 14 years later that still haunts me. What could he possibly have done that resulted in a more satisfying shower than one taken after RUNNING TWENTY-SIX POINT TWO MILES? What? It obsesses me.
Anyway, after wiping down the Niagara Falls that was my bathroom, I answered the phone. "Hello." I said.
One thing Ned has learned in his two delightful years with me is how to gauge the Many Moods of June. The many moods of June, most of them dour. "Uh-oh," said Ned.
"I'm crabby," I told him, and explained my story and clearly was being paid by the F word. "Well, I was calling to see if you needed me to bring anything, and I guess a shower rod, right?" he asked. "What size rod?"
"I do not KNOW what size rod, and I cannot TELL you what size rod, because the artist formerly known as my shower curtain rod is now out on my front lawn, where I threw it," I told him darkly.
It wasn't long before Ned appeared at my door, new rod in hand. So to speak. He looked back at the rod on my monkey grass. "You don't know what I would have given to be across the street watching you throw that thing," he said.
Ned commenced to pull the FORT KNOX plastic off my new shower curtain rod, and I have no idea why they make plastic so hard to remove nowadays. Remember when we all actually bought CDs, how hard those fucking plastic containers were to pull apart? You'd be in your car tearing at it like some kind of banshee, because you just effing wanted to hear Edie Brickell on the drive home. Goddammit.
Forty-nine minutes later, the plastic was off the new rod, and Ned fitted it to my wall.
He tried again.
"Well, maybe it's..." said Ned, as he pulled the rod this way and that. So to speak. He put it up again.
"@$$#&*@!!" said Ned, as he took the rod down and yanked at it.
And that's when the new shower curtain rod fell into a million and sixty pieces, and Ned's mood turned even darker than mine, and why I'm going to join the Y just so I can shower.