Monday, May 26, 2008


I would just like to say that in my world, there is precious little that cannot be made all better by a near-boiling soak in the old clawfoot. With bubbles. And a book, usually, although tonight I had to be semi-expedient so that I could attempt to balance the checkbook and pay a few bills before someone comes and repossesses my home, clawfoot and all.

I would have posted a photo of my own clawfoot tub instead of this one, which is much cleaner and has much more bathtub bling than mine, but since I am not Martha Stewart, a photo of my bathroom posted on the internet would greatly humiliate me. You may add to your mental image a tub caddy overflowing with half-empty (or half-full, dependent on your own personal disposition) personal care products and a smattering of squeaky tub toys and soggy reading material. Please refrain from adding me to your mental image, as I have enough issues around here with getting any privacy in my own bathroom.

I'm going to tell one more thing before I go pay those bills, about a sad, sad time before I had my wonderful clawfoot tub. I have always loved taking a bath, and a hot tub full of suds has always been one of my greatest solaces. When David and I lived in Oregon, I actually had a difficult time staying warm in the winter, which seems weird from a Minnesotan. For one thing, the winter there is wet and chilly, and the wet cold seems to sink right into your bones, even when it's not nearly as cold as it gets up here in the North. For another thing, whoever designed the heating systems on the West Coast was an idiot, because they put all of the heat in the ceiling. In the ceiling. And heat rises, as we have all learned in grade school science. Yeah, there was supposedly some fancy tiles or somesuch built into the floor that would radiate this fictional heat throughout the apartment, but the only way you were actually going to feel any of it was if you were to put thick wool socks on and stand on a tall chair. Then your ears might thaw out a bit.

Anyway, there were days upon end when I just could NOT get warm, and the only thing that would work was to take a bath. Unfortunately, our ghetto apartment had a hot water heater the size of a lap dog. There was only enough hot water in that sucker to just cover the very bottom of our tiny little bathtub. I remember having a very difficult day, and I was just longing, with all of my soul, for a nice hot bath to make it okay. I convinced myself that there really was enough hot water to at least get a few inches in the tub, but of course I ran out, and icy water poured in. I began to cry. Sob, really. And David did the sweetest thing ever. He began heating water on the stove, three or four pans full at a time, and steadily hauled them up the stairs and poured them into my bath, over and over, for at least an hour. I slipped down under the water until only my nose poked up over the surface, writing poetry in my head, and that's when I decided I must surely marry this wonderful man.

1 comment:

Beverly said...

Ha! I have a photo of my tub that I was going to write something about, but the photo really highlighted the grime, so I still haven't done it.