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It's impossible to overevaluate hot water
By Deborah Taylor-Hollis
Even before PG&E decided to sell its power generating plants (without any contracts limiting how much they would pay in the future for the stuff they used to make for free) and turned us into energy slaves, the people in our house were always well aware of one important element--vital to the peace, harmony and ongoing happiness of our little social unit--the value of hot water.
Unlike it's colder, unprocessed--and much cheaper--counterpart, hot water is something precious. Without it, I am a useless woman. Hot water makes the dishes go from just "not covered in food" to "sanitary for strangers if they don't look too hard." Hot water makes the difference between "white socks" and "yeah, I like to have everything that simple shade of easy-on-the-eyes gray." Hot water means that bucket-washing the car in winter does not finish with a trip to the emergency room for frostbitten fingers.
When we first arrived in our home, the 20-gallon antique that heated water in the bowels of the basement was not a priority. We had to bring in the food first. Then we went to sleep on the floor in camping bags until the bed got set up. The next day, however, I tried to wash my hair. Somewhere between getting it wet and actually using the shampoo, the water ran out. I suddenly realized that, for all our careful examination of the foundation, the roof and the "title," we had overlooked my most personal needs. I began plotting my revenge.
The first thing I did was restrict dishwashing hours to the early morning and mid-afternoon times, when the water supply could be replenished without affecting my evening bath. It gave me an extra five minutes, which almost covered the FIRST "shampoo, rinse, repeat" cycle. This was NOT a good thing.
And, in the confines of a 3-foot-long tub designed during the Taft administration and based on the principle that nice people don't recline naked, washing my hair in the tub was not an option. The open tub and curtain soaked the room, let in drafts, and was, overall, about as appealing as being fire-hosed in the streets of D.C., marching for equal rights. I realized the entire room had to go.
When we remodeled, the sudden boon included upgrading to a 40-gallon big boy. Sixty gallons, while perfect, wouldn't fit in the space allotted, and they were out of 50-gallon monsters. With the 40-gallon reservoir, I could finally wash, rinse, repeat and condition my hair all on the same day--a banner event. The shower stall we created helped keep the water on me and not the floors, yet it would take another brainstorm to incorporate washing my body at the same time as my now waist-length tresses.
When laundry was restricted to the midnight shift, freeing up another 10-plus gallons, we got to the point where I was clean all at the same time, but still hurried. Frenzied soaping, scrubbing and rinsing in the newly remodeled paean to all things hedonistic was irritating--especially if I didn't rinse all the soap off the first time. There was also the trouble with the new tub. Now, two people could recline simultaneously--in up to five inches of tepid water. We needed more.
That was when our final "adjustment" came to pass. We turned the heater thermostat to it's limit--120-degrees--plus. By spending huge amounts of energy to heat that 40-gallon basement bladder, less hot water was needed to mix with the cold to create a hot shower--and therefore, there was more to go around.
Nirvana had been reached. I could get in, wash, rinse and condition my hair, bath, exfoliate, shave my legs, shave my underarms, clean my ears, loofah my heels and still have warm water left over to scrub down the tile scum in the corners and then stand there and daydream about living in Tahiti and having young virile men bring me dripping wet pineapple slices. There was enough hot water to completely fill that tub up to the brim, and I could actually relax, sit back and reclaim inner peace.
Six months later we found out I was pregnant with our son, Stuart, and the amount of time available for anything more than jumping in, wetting the walls and sluicing the stink off me became our biggest issue. That beautiful tub now houses an assortment of rubber squirting toys, Hot Wheels, and Happy Meals toys that defy all efforts to make me feel sensuous, serene, or even female--and the bubble bath smells of cheap pink gum. The shower's glass doors make seeing inside impossible through the hard water haze, and the tile scum went as show and tell last week. Stuart won a prize in science for it.
Reach me at DTHollis@metronews.com --I'll be scrubbing the tub.
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Willow Glen, California Since 1992
