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I'm JM Fisher, Writer & Host Of The Weekly Cynic Podcast.

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Tales Of House Husbandry PT2: Trapped In The Shower

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I was of a most humiliating, emasculating predicament. I had, through the villainous undertaking of my wife, become entombed in my own shower stall.

While spritzing the tiled walls of the stall with a DIY organic cleaning solution—a mixture I modified and enhanced from a decent, but ultimately lackluster goop.com formula—my wife, with an assassin’s cunning, clobbered me from behind. 

Before my head clonked against the shower wall, I had a moment of lucid recognition, my eyes and mind able to not only process the rapid approach of those newly installed ceramic tiles with their blue, vintagey fleur-de-lis blemished with an archival, coffee stain hue, but, all the molecules of grime I had yet to vanquish…

Oh, did I mention the tile selection was inspired by a Saturday morning scroll through Pinterest?

***

After a brief period of unconsciousness, I stood from the floor of the shower stall, damp, but sprinkled in the lemony, summer meadow fragrance of my cleaning solution. 

I pushed to open the stall’s door, but it remained immovable, obstructed, the reticulated frosting of the floor-to-ceiling glass walls making it impossible to see what devious mechanisms my wife had engineered to keep me trapped. 

I sighed, deflated at the possibility that I would have to postpone this afternoon’s journey to Trader Joe’s, all the preparations for dinner imperiled by my deficiencies in survivalism, those basic techniques of manliness imparted during one’s formative years of Cub Scouting… 

I told your Mom you weren’t going to make it, house boy! Remember that name? What I used to call you? Always running away from the tough stuff in life! You couldn’t even last one day in the scouts!

I could hear my father’s mocking shouts…

Whattaya gonna do when your in the camps, huh? When they finally come for the sick and the weak, how you going to fight back?

I stood, head bowed, nodding…

Jesushchrist stop being a sally, smash the goddamn glass!

The consequences would be shorn, bloodied skin, possible lacerations and fractured bones, but…

Dad, this stall was custom built! The glass is artisanal! From the local glassmaker! It was unbelievably time consuming and expensive!

My father was scowling, She owns your soul, son! Your fucked! It’s like your already in the camps!

I was capable of only a whimpering, doomed exhale, Sorry, dad…

***

Above me, installed in one of the corners of the ceiling, was a small, rectangular device. When I stood on the tips of my toes, giving myself an extra inch or so to inspect the gadget, I saw there was a small lens protruding from its shell. 

It’s a fucking camera, you chump… Your wife is evil! 

“Yeah, sure, dad…” I smiled, giving an apologetic wave to the camera.

Behind me, our newly purchased and professionally installed $400 titanium shower head erupted, cold water thudding and drenching my back.

I yelped, the water halting.

Go on, house boy, wave again…

I satisfied my imagined father’s voice and waved:

A torrent of cold water.

“My love…please…please… I need to get out. I need to go for provisions. I mean, I know how much you hate leftovers. I wouldn’t want you to be forced into another meal of roasted ostrich…” I was pleading as if my Wife could hear me.

I turned to face the shower head, my back erect, shoulders stiffened, chest an imposing force against the onslaught of water, “See this dad… See this…” 

***

After a few minutes, I could no longer withstand the incessant deluge.

I twisted the control knobs, but the water continued, both the hot and cold seemingly disabled.

I turned, waving to the camera, but the water never ceased, only pulsing against my sodden back.

I stripped, my clothes splattering onto the stall floor.

I moved away from the brunt of the gushing water to lay on the floor, my shivering body curling into a protective fetal position as I attempted to sleep.

***

I woke to the sound of clanking chains, hinges creaking, light piercing my eyelids.

“Aww, you’re all wetty wet, aren’t you…”

I was starting into my wife’s bare ankles.

“Here…” 

A towel plumped onto my head.

“Now, when you have dried off, I need you in the bedroom. I have a bad day that needs to be fucked out of me.” My wife laughed, walking away. “Oh, and don’t think I’m going to eat leftovers, tonight, either…”

Sorry, dad…

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