My Water Heater Is A Sadistic Douchebag

Picture if you will a beautiful July morning. The air outside is crisp, and the day is ripe with promise! I desire nothing more than to slink into a hot, steaming shower, scrub my hair with yummy-smelling shampoo, shave my legs so I can wear those cute new capris I bought to work, and CARPE DIEM. Alas, things did not go my way.

I get about three minutes of warm water. Then, ice ass cold. Not just lukewarm. So cold I can feel the blood crystallizing in my veins. So cold my complexion rivals that of an Iditarod dog-sled racer on Day 6. Apparently, my pilot light decided to up and blow the fuck out. I jump out of the shower in a state of hypothermia-induced panic and find myself sopping wet, freezing, wrapped in a towel and squatting on concrete in my garage (next to a recycling bin full of way too many wine bottles), reading the instructions on my water heater which are helpfully illustrated with pictures of stick figures dying horrible, flaming deaths. Yeah, this shit CAN'T go wrong.



Long story short, eventually I get the damn thing relit. Rejoice! Hot showers galore! Then, this same thing happens like five more times in two weeks. If I have to rinse out my conditioner with water the same temperature as glacial ice melt again, I'm-a hafta punch a bitch.

So NW Natural gets a call from one angry, shivering-ass cold, shampoo-lathered bitch. Long story short, things don't work out in my favor. Water Heater: 1, Tierney: 0.

This is Chapter One. I am in the midst of Chapter Two, yet to be concluded and to be blogged upon at a later time. In the meantime, I relight my pathetically flaccid, dying pilot light once a day just to heat enough water to bathe a small rodent.

Rest assured, somewhere in the annals of residential, single-family-home Vancouver suburbia, there is a chick who is roughing it. She is unpredictable, armed, and may slit your throat for hot water.

Pity me. And fear me.