Breaking my "pot" dependence

"Shower" time!

There’s this game I play almost daily with my water heater, Takagi. It goes like this:

I flip the shower faucet to the hottest setting, check that the temperature is to my liking and shed my clothes. Then it’s Takagi’s turn. He dispatches liquid icicles through the showerhead to pierce my goose-pimpled flesh as I step into the tub. My turn again. I jump backward, curse and frantically grasp for the faucet, doing my best to sacrifice no more than shivering shins to the frigid spray as I struggle to cut off the flow. Then I scramble from the tub.

The rest of the game usually involves me, wearing nothing but a towel, stomping from kitchen sink to guest shower to master sink and back again as I test every water source for the slightest hint of warmth. Surely the exact combination of time, pressure and celestial alignment will finally equal hot water, and I can shower and make it to my appointment or job interview on time. But Takagi, curse him, always wins.

First World problem, right? I’m lucky to have access to hot water – however intermittently -- at all. Yesterday, I surrendered to that conniving water heater and bathed with a 5-quart pot of water boiled on the stove. Even as I stood shivering over this blessedly steaming pot in my tub, I realized how fortunate I was to have the ability to remedy the situation through electricity. And, if I’m being truthful, washing a la pot wasn’t so bad; I simply dipped a washcloth into the water, added a bit of soap and attacked the important bits (pits and parts). Dumping the remaining water over my body in one giant gush was borderline luxurious. Later that night, I debated reusing the pot to cook ravioli but thought better of it. First, perhaps a run through the dishwasher was in order.

Evil Takagi

I didn’t always live this way. When Matt and I first moved into this adorable, refurbished 1940’s cottage in the San Francisco suburbs, the supply of skin-reddening water seemed never ending; no matter how many back-to-back showers we took, the tankless water heater magically accommodated our demands for more. After growing up with a younger sister who required half-hour-long showers (to wash what, exactly?! I don’t think Hailey knows what a skin roll looks like) and could only be coaxed from the bathroom once our home’s hot water tank was exhausted (or by repeat flushing of the toilet), possessing such control over our hot water god felt otherworldly. Matt and I didn’t abuse our power (there’s a drought on, after all), but we certainly did appreciate it.

But then the dry season arrived and the cottage’s irrigation system switched on. Apparently, Takagi mandates a certain level of water pressure before he will engage. If the pressure is temporarily allocated to the lawn, Takagi refuses to perform until the timed cycle ends, our landlords told us.

This seemed easy enough to fix; Matt and I simply needed to adjust the sprinkler system so the various zones activated in the middle of the night, when we were unlikely to require a shower. Unfortunately, we neglected to consider the irrigation-happy neighbors behind us and how our properties, once united as one, share a water supply. 

Since the summer, Matt and I have waged epic battles against evil Takagi. We curse and bump around in the attic to beg an audience and reason with him, a fruitless endeavor considering he was manufactured in Japan and speaks only Japanese. Takagi’s digital display screen is basically a jumble of winking emojis and ninja nonsense. He simply can’t be reasoned with. And so we stomp around the house dressed only in towels and sometimes, when we’re especially aggravated, nothing at all. Perhaps our naked fury will scare Takagi into submission. At the very least, it’s bound to scare the neighbors.

I now realize I’ve been lazy about this whole Takagi situation. I must keep a running log of his misbehavior so I can prove it’s not connected to our sprinklers, now deactivated. And now that it’s raining again (quite substantially, I might add), I think it’s time I finally spoke to those neighbors and asked them what gives? It seems as if no matter what time I attempt to shower, the water pressure is drawn somewhere other than my shower faucet. How is that possible? Nobody waters the lawn that much.

But first, a shower. I see my pot of water has reached a nice boil.

Christmas trees: Wanted dead or alive?

Last year's tree

I don’t often watch “Shark Tank,” the ABC reality program in which aspiring entrepreneurs attempt to secure funding, because the potential investors are often unnecessarily mean, and this makes me uncomfortable. But “Shark Tank” happened to be on after “Jeopardy” one night, and I watched an episode in which a Manhattan Beach man pitched his idea for a potted holiday tree rental business. He called his company “The Living Christmas Company.” I loved it. But more importantly, billionaire Mark Cuban loved it. He invested $150,000 for 40 percent of the business. You can learn more about the clever concept here.

I’m not a tree hugger per se, but I have mixed feelings about traditional Christmas trees. I do enjoy the smell of fresh evergreen. And decorating a tree has a way of formally ushering in the holiday season. Of course, after just a few weeks of merriment, a living beauty 10 years or more in the making becomes mulch.

Throughout my childhood, my family often traveled during the holiday season, so we seldom purchased a tree. For a few years, we resorted to lugging around a 5-foot-tall plastic replica so thin it appeared fashioned from giant green pipe cleaners. It consisted of three sections stacked together and when held upside down, the “branches” of each section collapsed like an umbrella to facilitate easy storage. One year, the Christmas my family road tripped to North Carolina with my dad’s brother’s family, the rubbery ficus tree gracing our rented cabin became the impromptu holiday centerpiece. We children composed (and enthusiastically sang) a special song for that tree. It went something like this:

“Oh, ficus tree, oh, ficus tree,
Your leaves are so plastic-y.
Dinosaurs died to make your trunk,
Oh, thank goodness they didn’t flunk.”

If my family purchased a live tree, it would be one of those foot-tall potted ones -- the saddest, most pathetic tree the home improvement store carried. Like many kids raised on “Charlie Brown” holiday television specials, my sister and I were naturally drawn to such trees; like neglected puppies, they needed our love more than the full, healthy ones did. And so we’d shower these spindly specimens in affection haphazardly assembled from Cheerios and Froot Loops and ugly ornaments Hailey and I shaped from whatever art supplies happened to be on hand. Sometimes, when we felt especially creative, we’d toss on garland fashioned from toilet paper. Yes, it was simply magical.  After the holidays, we took the tree home and planted it in the yard so we could watch it grow. One such tree, mistakenly situated by my parents’ front door, grew so large that it threatened to uproot the front steps and so, sadly, had to be cut down. 

A salvaged tree goes up in flames

As teens, my Lake Worth, Fla., cousins had their own unique holiday tree tradition: Starting on the day after Christmas, they climbed into a golf cart and patrolled their neighborhood for trees kicked to the curb. These they dragged into their backyard and “recycled” by torching them in the enormous fire pit. No, this wasn’t exactly “green,” and it probably wasn’t even legal. Nor was it responsible. Not so long ago, the bonfire got a tad out of hand, and an overhanging Royal Poinciana tree crisped. But at least those poor, discarded trees brought a second round of joy to the young and young at heart. Like heathens, my cousins watched the hungry flames lick and devour the dry, cracking needles. If Hailey and I happened to be around, we’d happily join them. Pyromania, as everyone knows, is contagious.

I admit to being a certifiably "Scooged" adult; I am annoyed by the increasing commercialization of Christmas, and so I’ve been plugging my ears against the incessant melody of holiday music since October, when most of the local stores began pumping it from their speakers. Matt and I have neglected to purchase a tree – even a potted one -- or hang holiday decorations. Our families swore off gifts for everyone but the children because, frankly, we don’t need anything and because we stubbornly refuse to be swept up in all this shopping mayhem (not in a million years could you drag me to the mall right now). While this all sounds quite pompous, I can’t express enough what a relief it is not to worry about gifts this year, to know we’re spending our money on the most important thing to us: traveling to visit family. I'm not purporting to be better (and certainly not more pious) than traditional holiday revelers -- just maybe more frugal.  

Yesterday, Matt told me about the 20-foot Christmas trees corralled in the Camino de Real tree lots he passes during his daily work commute. I was shocked. How much would a tree like that cost? Who had room in their house for such a tree? And, most perplexing, how on earth would they transport it home?

I searched for Matt’s behemoth Christmas trees today while driving past the same lots, and I think he must be mistaken; What he thought were giant, post-chopping block firs are actually still-living pines framing the railroad tracks. Somehow, that knowledge made me happy. Bah humbug.