I dreamed that I was a sports photographer.

I was taking pictures of a bunch of gymnasts from the same club killing time at a meet. Just when I thought I had a good shot lined up, one of them would turn around, or two of them would break off from the group for a private chat, or a couple would leave the group to talk to someone further away. It was so frustrating. The only interpretation I can come up with is that I shouldn't be a sports photographer. It wasn't really in my plans, anyway.

I woke to find that the drain in my shower is clogged. As in, completely blocked. The tub has three inches of cold, soap-filmed water in it. A bottle of Liquid Plumber had no apparent effect. I've called my superintendent, but he hasn't called me back yet. I really don't want to stand in cold, soap-filmed water up to my ankles to take a shower, but it looks like I don't have a choice. What can I do? Bail?

I know what's clogging the drain: my hair. I'm losing small handfuls of hair every time I shower. Can I take this moment to mention how much I hate my thyroid? And to mention that no matter how hip the bald look is, I can't pull it off?

Anyway.

The story just gets keeps getting better: the property management company in charge of my apartment has to approve any repair work on my drain. The woman who handles my apartment is on extended leave (and I'm thankful for that, because she's impossible), so the receptionist transferred me to someone else. Lisa, the someone else, is at lunch, so I left a message on her voicemail with my number, my super's number, and a quick précis of the situation.

I hope she comes back to the office after lunch. Why does this shit always happen on a Friday?

Edited, 4:15 pm: the company sent the handyman over. I like him. He's funny and nothing bothers him. His diagnosis was that the clog had been accumulating for a long time. He took off the overflow drain cover, dumped some industrial-strength cleaner in the drain, and spent twenty minutes alternating plunger work with hot water. Then he sucked some of the sludge out with a heavy-duty shop vac.

Let me pause here to reflect on the horror of the stench produced when solvent-melted sludge is sucked out of a drain. I have no words adequate to describe the smell.

He's coming back tomorrow with more drain cleaner. He didn't have enough to burn through the hair clogging the pipe. I said that I tended to lose a lot of hair in the shower. "Well, you've got a lot of hair." Less and less every day, I said.

So in the morning, I have to get to the car inspection station before the whole Fenway area becomes a mob scene (the Sox are home against the Angels at 1:05 pm, so I have to get in and out of the Fenway area before 11:00 am). Then home, hoping the parking gods are with me, to let the handyman in. Then I'm scrubbing the hell out of the bathtub. I'm going to have the cleanest tub in the city.

For now, I think a shower is in order.

In the interest of full disclosure: I also learned that Impossible Bitch at my realty management firm is on extended medical leave, and according to the handyman, she is desperately ill (I'm paraphrasing). I didn't ask for the details, but it doesn't sound good. This is my cue to point out that her bad karma came back around and smacked her down, but even I can't do that. I hope she recovers from whatever it is, even if she returns to being an impossible bitch.