My John.

My shower is of the weird marbled stall variety, like the kind you had in college, if you went to the University of Little Nottinghamshire in the 1500s. While charming and at times useful, in that I've often been able to dodge various men's dreaded whispers of "Let's shower together" under the excuse of less than 50% of the unholy coupling being able to fit (and not under the more honest excuse "Showering with someone else blows"), it's still pretty damn inconvenient to have to go all swami if I want to shave my legs. It's also kind of strange that I don't have a tub, considering I have tons of extra yardage in my bathroom, to the point where I have - gasp- empty shelves. My toilet even has its own alcove, so you feel secret and naughty and regal when you lay a twosie. In a neighborhood where your local supermarket offers specials such as this:

Stock up for the winter.

Well, it can be a home away from home. Anyway, recently, I'd been finding a small flood had formed each time I showered. At first I blamed myself and the chemolike amounts of hair that I lose when I bathe, but I soon realized that I had some sort of plumbing problem. After a brief phone call with my landlords, an old Polish couple so stoic that I can only assume that the NYC real estate market is no biggie after the horrors of Dresden, they assured me that "Josef" the handyman would be at my door at 9 the next morning.

At 810 AM the next morning, my buzzer rang and woke me up, and a few minutes later, a 75-year-old Polish man arrived at my door, wheezing what I assumed would be his last breath. He evaluated my situation by swearing under his breath in Polish for a few minutes,and then somehow managed to communicate that he'd be back at 9 on Monday to "tub", and that for me, there would be "no washing for two days". I assured him it wouldn't be a problem, as I could shower at the gym, which is odd, since I don't belong to a gym and have no reason to lie to a man that shares less than 20 words in common with me, but hey, sleep deprivation makes me outright lie, what can I say.

At 845 AM this morning, Josef arrived, having brought a younger helper of about 60, who I assume will be doing the heavy lifting and rescue breathing. Josef and I were old friends at this point and past the need to communicate with words, and since I was sopping wet and wearing only a bathrobe, I was happy to snatch my birth control, give him the keys to the place, and point at the bathroom in a grand sort of ribbon-cutting gesture, while I went to my bed/living room to dress. For anyone who's not had the pleasure of lotioning themselves down to the harsh Slavic yells of Polish laborers, it's like going to a spa where everything has to be done urgently. Before I left, I caught view of a missing wall and Josef grunting something about "tub" and "moving sink", and I saw this tool on my kitchen floor:

Is that a.....I'm just gonna assume you're happy to see me.

So I'm guessing that tonight's not a good night to entertain.