January 29, 2008

Taking A Bath


I am going to tell the story of my bath last night. This is something I definitely should have foregone, but like everyone else I have much better hindsight than foresight.

First, light the candles. Then shake out the match, drop into trash. Then step into the tub and manage to knock both towel and book, Two Captives of Big Bear, into the drink.

Quick, scroop them out. Wring out the towel, dry off the book best I can with the
small towel.

Alright, try it again. This time I made sure to get my foot up and over the book, which I will read anyway, soggy or not. I slither down into the piping hot water, all cozy and bubbly. . .
yikes! The trash can is on fire!!!!

I don't recall getting out of the tub; I was just out.


The garbage can is shooting flames a foot high out the top. But where to grab? Just grab. Now what?
Turn on sink tap and shove white plastic garbage can under. Flames flicker, hiss, water sizzles, black globs of melted plastic bubble down into the sink, over my fingers. Eeegads, that burns. Drop the trash can. Can't get the melted plastic peeled off my skin. Cold water. Now gag on the smoke everywhere.

Yank open the door, set trash can outside, start trying to pick up all the black melted blobs all over the floor with toilet paper.
But guess what? A spot doesn't want to come up. I've melted the linoleum and it looks like a was sitting on the pot, reading the news, and dropped my cigar.

So there I am, stark naked, dripping wet, shivering cold, soooo aggravated with myself at ruining my floor, when what to my astonished, disgusted ears do I hear? The smoke alarms going off! Not one, not two, but three!

I jump up, open the door, grab the trash can, bring it back in, dump the wet towel on top, alarms beeping so piercingly, achingly, loud I get an instant headache. But can I run out, find a chair, climb up, and start pulling batteries out of the ceiling? No! Because I'm still naked, dripping, and have no blinds on most of my windows. . .

I said out loud, "Well, now, this is a real fine how-do-you-do," shut the bathroom door, pulled down my bathrobe, but was just wiggling into it when the first alarm quit. I paused, one arm in, one arm out. The second one quit. I waited. Third one quit.

You know what? Back in the tub, heart hammering, I did not experience the relaxation I had envisioned.


But today at work I sure got a lot of laughs...though I noticed no one volunteered to help me replace my linoleum.

My youngest, it turns out, is laid up with a bad back. At lunch I dashed into Walgreens and got him a heating pad and ice, drove through falling snow to his condo and got him all fixed up. "Can you help me replace my linoleum?" I asked. "I mean, when your back is better?"

"Just buy a new trash can, Mumsy, and put that over your burnt hole." And for that I endured a third Ceasarian section? What a jip.