It'll Flow Like It Flows

The Shower Head War has outlived its uneasy truce. Farmer H and I have returned to battle.

The main problem lies in the disbursement of water. The *REDACTED shower head, top-of-the-line when first installed in the Mansion That Farmer H Built, was a sight to behold. So many settings, so little hot-water time. We regularly twisted Goldy into alternating spray and pulsating modes. When it comes to my shower, I think of it as a toilet. It should remain in the standard setting, and anybody desiring to alter it for their own personal needs should return it to the neutral state when finished.

Not so Farmer H. He is of the opinion Finders Weepers, Last Users Rulers. Woe is me, upon stepping into the shower and having my skin peeled off by the doubling-as-a-power-washer Goldy. I thought I had broken Farmer H of his Hillmomba-Convention-violating shenanigans. All it took was several times stepping under the newly-adjusted smooth garden hose of revenge setting for him to see the practicality of leaving Goldy in the neutral shower spray of all mankind.

Now we have a new problem. Though recurring. The bloom is off the rose of specialty spray. We're both happy to stand under an even cascade of warm water. But the healthy minerals dissolved in our well water are wreaking havoc with Goldy's pores. No water-softening system for this Mansion. We pull out the gallon jug of vinegar and start slaying Sir Calcium by dissolving his armor. In theory. In all actuality, we each wait for the other to blink.

Farmer H could easily pop Goldy's head off and submerge him in a vinegar drowning pool. I, on the other hand. prefer to bring the drowning pool to Goldy, leaving his head attached. I have no desire to see the inner workings of Goldy's noggin.

Right now we are in the cold war stage. Neither will remedy the problem. We spin Goldy's face 180/360/540/720 trying to get back to our preferred spray pattern. I am not satisfied with a bundle of conjoined streams carving a trough in my tender epidermis. Nor do I enjoy the gap as big as the space between David Letterman's teeth, where no water flows.

I'm thinking about calling Jack Spratt's wife to see how they have balanced their marriage all these years. I have to wait for just the right time. Previously I have caught her mid-platter-lick. She's a tad cranky then.

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*Sorry, had to change that description, not wanting the word "shower" to appear immediately after that word that describes a valuable metal of the yellow color. You never know what people might be Googling right before ending up here at the Mansion.