No matter when I get in the shower, my wife decides it's the perfect time to flush the toilet upstairs. For some odd reason, the water turns ice cold. How is that possible when the toilet flushes cold water? It goes against the laws of physics. These things keep me up at night.
It's probably not an issue in newer homes. But our house is old, older than Don Rickles' mother. Everything's taped together, barely hanging in there. The basement is a maze of wires, tubes, gizmos, what's-its, things I've never seen before, everything dangling from the ceiling. When an electrician comes over, says, "you're lucky to be alive," you know something ain't right. Don't even get me going about the strange orange gelatinous goo I find in the nooks and crannies. I don't know what lives down there, not sure I want to.
But I'm off topic again. Whenever the upstairs toilet flushes, I'm in for a cold shower. And my wife hits the sweet spot each time I jump in there.
Before every shower, I tell her not to flush. Warnings have been issued. Stern looks are posed, aimed, shot. Nothing seems to work. It's almost like she's secretly taking out her hidden hostilities, wreaking a quiet vengeance. Or fate hates me. Maybe I ticked off the plumbing gods in a past life. Karma can suck.
What's it gonna' take? Post-it notes everywhere? The floor's open for suggestions.