I have. It was today, in fact.
We closed on our house in August of last year. By my calculations, that's about about seven or eight months. Keep that number in mind.
One of the selling points of this house was the jet tub in the upstairs bathroom. Scout couldn't wait to use it. When we closed on the house and Scout went to take his long-awaited bath (remember, we lived in an Airstream for six weeks prior to that), we were both disappointed when the jets wouldn't work.
Logically, I knew there must be stuff growing inside the jets. But when we cleaned the tub, the jets were always wiped down where the visible grime was. And the jets didn't work anyway, so what did it matter?
Well, today as I was bathing, getting ready to shave and push back my cuticles so that I could paint my toe nails, I decided I wanted to know why the jets weren't working. EIGHT. MONTHS. LATER. Do you know where this is going yet?
I pushed the button. The button that never worked before.
Well friends, the button worked this time. And I promise you that I was totally covered by spattering particles that looked like boogers. Don't take my word for it. See for yourselves:
Scout heard me screaming obscenities and came running upstairs. He walked in on me, completely frozen, and I said, "The jets work. Help me."
I started thinking about the eight months all that crap had to grow. I can't even think about it without wanting to dry heave.
And what in the hell possessed me to push that stupid button?