On water...

Yup.  That's the bathroom faucet.  It has me thinking this week about how I used to take water (a constant supply with decent pressure and temperature control) for granted.  Not anymore.  Please dig out your Pottery Barn catalogues and try to find me a new faucet fixture that matches this one, because it has come to my attention that this one is somewhat defective.  As I cranked on that pretty red lever the other night to brush my teeth, the entire faucet fixture shot off and a gush of highly pressurized water shot straight out from the hole in the wall into my solar plexus - knocking the wind out of me, giving me the urge to vomit and shocking me with the cold temperature and astounding pressure of the water.  I moved out of the way and the water shot across the bathroom and pounded into the wall opposite the sink until I managed to shove the faucet fixture back in place and turn the crank back to the off position.

The irony of this high-pressure blast was not lost on me.  How is it that the washing machine can take three hours to fill with a drip that is equivalent to that used in Chinese water torture, and the hand-held shower contraption that is attached to the water heater dispenses water at a similar rate - taking nearly 25 minutes to wash shampoo from my hair - yet the pressure from the bathroom sink is enough to bore a hole clear through me?

Then there are the odd particles that arrive in the water.  Two days ago it was large chunks of what appeared to be tree bark that spewed forth from the tap in the bathroom.  This morning, as I hand filled the washing machine with pots of water, it was stones that poured into my pot.  I have a sneaking suspicion that this "fresh" water is coming directly from the river just outside my front door.

Which in some ways makes me feel just a little bit better about the water tank incident.  Water in the house is "on demand" as long as the roof-top tank is full and you haven't "demanded" too much already.  Naturally there is no way to gauge how much water is left in the tank until you are in the shower, shampoo in your hair and eyes sealed shut, and the ridiculously lame water trickle disappears completely.  When the water is gone, it is completely gone.  The switch to the water pump that refills the rooftop tank is, of course, outside.  There's no better way to make new friends with your Vietnamese neighbors than to stumble outside, half-naked with shampoo in your hair and eyes, and bumble around with the water pump switch.

I was actually elated when the water ran out while I was doing dishes the other day, because it meant I could go outside clothed and flip the switch to the water pump.  I could also be relatively confident that I would get a full shower without having to repeat the process the next time.  Refilling the tank is not an exact science (sadly).  The word we got from the house's owner was "leave the switch on for about ten minutes."  So I flipped the switch, glanced at my watch and went inside to stand in front of the fan.  I got busy trying to pry my sweat-soaked skirt off my legs and lost track of time.  When I looked at my watch again, I realized it had been fifteen minutes.  I scurried back to the kitchen where I heard a sound similar to the pounding of Niagara Falls and realized there was indeed a waterfall coming from the roof.  If I hadn't noticed it myself, the neighbor who was peering in through the window (okay - square hole in the kitchen wall with bars over it) would surely have pointed it out.  I gave him my sheepish "silly ATPW wave" and hurried outside to turn off the pump.  I locked myself  in the house and listened to the water continue to flow off the roof for another five minutes - wrestling with my first-world guilt about wasting a precious natural resource.  When I headed out for a run about thirty minutes later, I could see the small tributary that my waterfall had created - running down the alley next to my house, across the sidewalk and into the river.  I decided the water had come full circle, and I should let my guilt go.

When I returned home to find a large toad hopping around the kitchen, it didn't even phase me. I figure it may have popped up through the toilet or wriggled its way out of the tap.  I'm just happy it wasn't in that jet of water that blasted me in the gut the other night.  That would have been messy.