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I hate the bathing situation at my parents' house. Again, it's not like they're unkempt, even though my dad recently had a bug in his ear. Really, they're clean. They bathe often and well. But they've got several things working against them. For starters, they live in a beautiful 100-year-old farmhouse. But with beautiful old farmhouses comes tempermental plumbing. The septic system has filled their basement on several occasions, including my wedding day. I'll bet I'm one of the only brides who has a photo of a plumber, grinning knee-deep in raw sewage, in her wedding album.

The second and more worrisome problem comes from those who might happen to work on the troubling plumbing. Just to give you an idea of what we're dealing with:

Ten or eleven years ago, my parents decided to remodel their bathroom and add one of those oversized whirlpool bathtubs. Now, in my family, hiring a professional to do a job is for sissies. They put the "you" in do-it-yourself. Nothing wrong with that, except my dad has one speed when it comes to any project: warp. He's not the most careful person in the world, as you know if you've read this blog for any length of time.

The first time I used the new bathtub, I set the single water faucet in the middle to gauge the water temperature. It was too hot, so I turned the knob to the side marked with a giant blue "C", only to be greeted with steaming, flesh-searing scalding-hot water. The scary part is, this didn't surprise me. At all. As I tended my blisters I thought, "What's wrong here? Well, Dad installed it, so "C" is probably hot water and "H" is probably cold." And I was right.

It's one thing to accidentally install a faucet backwards. It's another thing entirely when people expect you to do so.

The latest plumbing situation at my parents' house involves the upstairs bathroom, next to the two spare bedrooms. For years it just had a bathtub, and I was thrilled last summer when they decided to add a shower. They didn't do this for my convenience; they did it because my little hometown hosts a lot of events and a lot of people rent their spare bedrooms to visitors. So they got the idea to fix things up and rent the spare rooms.

They haven't had any paying guests so far, just freeloaders like B. and me who don't seem to understand that beggers can't be choosers and we really have no room to complain about this shower. Not that this is going to stop me. Because even though I didn't pay one red cent to sleep and bathe in my childhood home, I asked for financial compensation for my bathing experience.

On Saturday, shortly before the 40 guests arrived for the mongo birthday three-way (Clara Jane, Granny Viv, and my 75-year-old great-aunt Helen), I stopped cooking long enough to bathe and make myself presentable. Since my last shower, I'd driven 3/4 of the way across the state, chased and wrangled my child, been repeatedly licked from shoulder to hand and back by Chiggar, ran around the way-overheated house helping with party preparations, spent a chunk of time on kitchen duty, and started The Deluge. I think it's fair to say I was a tad gamey. I didn't want to use the downstairs hot-is-cold-cold-is-hot shower because 1) I'd just straightened it up and didn't want to make a mess, 2) I didn't want to haul my crap downstairs, then back upstairs, and 3) Clara Jane was taking an entirely too delicate nap in the next room. So, the upstairs shower was it.

I didn't think this would be a problem. I've taken several showers in there and while it's not the finest of bathing experiences, it does the trick. I got undressed, turned on the water, and pulled the plunger to direct the water from the faucet to the showerhead.

Nothing.

I wrestled, pulled, tugged. Nothing. One thing worked: kneeling beside the bathtub while holding the faucet against the wall with my left hand and holding the plunger up with my right. While this provided a hefty shower spray, it didn't do me much good, what with being outside the tub and all.

After five minutes of wrangling, I put my clothes back on and yelled down the stairs for help. My mom came up a repeated the jiggling and jostling I had done. But something she did worked, and the water started to flow. With time ticking, I shooed her away, stripped again, hopped into the tub, and watched as my weight shifted the faucet just enough to send all the cold water through the bathtub faucet, leaving me under a scalding showerhead.

I jumped out of the shower, sweatier than I was when I started. I could have taken two showers in the time it took me to take, well, none. I gave up, admitted defeat, and took a most refreshing sponge bath in the sink, followed by a good dose of Lush's Candy Fluff, certain that I probably smelled just like my father-in-law: body odor encrusted with powder.

During the party I was standing with my cousin H, who never learned shame. H. says whatever crosses her mind. We were talking about her latest trip to Chicago, and I asked if she'd went to the Lush store. "What's Lush?" she asked.

I saw my chance. "Here," I said, getting right up against her. "Smell me." I knew that if I stunk, I could count on H. and her magnificent lack of tact to tell me so.

"Mmmmmmmm! That smells so good!"

Hallelujah! I was able to relax, confident that my sponge bath and expensive body powder had done their job. I didn't even flinch when, several hours later in the middle of the living room, H. hiked down her pants and demanded that I feel her underwear. That's just how things work in our family.