In the house of which I no longer speak, there is a huge soaking tub in the master bathroom.
It was mine.
I miss that tub.
I take a bath most nights, and in this rental house, that means using the girls’ bathroom, where the sole bathtub is located. It is a small dark awkward bathtub, with sliding glass doors that tend to slip off of the aluminum track into which they fit. Pretty much the only thing I like about taking a bath in this bathroom is the tub’s ability to hold me and hot water at the same time.
It’s late and the girls are sleeping. I head up the stairs and swing open the bathroom door so that it rests against the tub and shower enclosure on my left. This is a fairly cramped bathroom, and the fact that the girls have made it theirs means that it is filled to overflowing with hairbrushes and toothbrushes and make-up and soap and lotions and jewelry and shampoo and just . . . stuff. Stuff is everywhere.
The toilet has been left open, and the water within is yellow. How there is not a pee-stained terrier dancing at my feet, I do not know; Jack the smaller badly behaved dog lives for this sort of opportunity. I sigh as I unbutton and lower my pants and sit down to pee on top of the pee, figuring it’s not worth flushing twice, realizing as I pee that I was able to appreciate the yellow-hued water so clearly because the view was not obscured by toilet paper. I reach resignedly to spin the empty toilet paper roll and make mental notes to chat (again) with Kallan about remembering to flush and with both girls (again) about replacing the toilet paper roll when it is empty.
I lean sideways to my left and rummage blindly into the cupboard beneath the sink with my hand, but I come up empty. No toilet paper. Stupid stupid children.
I make a mental note to remind the girls (again) that they are supposed to keep this bathroom stocked with toilet paper from the downstairs pantry.
I consider yelling for Mark, but he’s two floors away, and I am not inclined to wake the girls, who are sleeping just down the hall. Our master bathroom is on this floor and there is toilet paper in there, but that does not solve my immediate problem. Sigh. I am tired and annoyed. Fuck it. I kick loose my pants and toss them onto the floor, and then I stand over the toilet and shake as best I can. I’m taking a bath anyway . . . no big deal.
I close the toilet lid and flush the toilet.
I remove my shirt and bra.
Naked is how I do baths, people.
Of course, in order to take a bath, I will need some water. I reach tiredly to move aside the sliding door of privacy glass that blocks my access to the fauceted half of the bathtub, but it is stuck. I wiggle it a bit and try to get it lined up in its track, but it won’t budge. Frustrated, I give it a hard yank, and it slides abruptly and swiftly all the way to the left.
As it slides, it reveals a crazed madwoman who has been lying in wait in the bathtub, and I let out a shriek of terror as I throw myself backward and out of this woman’s reach. I register the fact that she is nude, but I do not realize for another instant that I am looking at my own reflection in the mirrored second half of the shower/tub enclosure. Instead I think how craftily evil she is, because this way all of my murdered blood will flow freely down the drain and she will be able to shower away any possible spatter while standing over my dead bloodless body. In a panic, I crash backward into the toilet and sit down hard, and the woman in the bathtub does the same.
Neither one of us is the least bit cute.
I can feel my heart thumping and straining within my chest.
Stupid mirrored door is not supposed to be hiding behind the other door.
I make a mental note to remind the girls (again) not to leave these sliding doors one behind the other, because the smaller badly behaved dog then hops into the bathtub and does ridiculous things like eat soap and rip apart bath sponges. Also, leaving the doors one behind the other allows for the possibility of their mother being attacked by a mirrored murdering maniac version of herself.
I stare at the woman who is me; she looks tired and disheveled and pissed.
Her children are probably just as irritating as mine are.
I stand and lean forward to slide aside the mirrored door and start the bath water. I take a step, and as I step, I feel something hard and small beneath my heel. Ow.
I look down, and I see that the floor is littered with clear round beads.
Stupid children.
I make a mental note to remind the girls (again) that if they make a mess, they are supposed to clean it up.
As I wait for the tub to fill a bit, I get down on my naked hands and knees and start picking up the beads. I do this because my mind is filled with a sudden clear vision of Mark walking into this bathroom while I am taking a bath and slipping on one of these beads and then falling and hitting his head on the toilet and then dying as I sit, half-hidden by the sliding shower doors, in steamy water. I scrabble along the floor, feeling for the nearly invisible beads. I do not want Mark to die; if the image I saw in the shower door mirror is at all accurate, it would be best if I never have to get naked in front of a new person again.
No more dating for me.
Still on my knees, I reach to dump a handful of beads into the small garbage can that has been upended and scattered behind the toilet. I make a mental note to remind the girls (again) to put this garbage can on the back of the toilet so that the smaller badly behaved dog does not rummage through the trash for goodies. I lean low to gather up the gnawed tissues and Q-tips and assorted ickiness. As I stuff handfuls of trash into the can, I make a mental note to remind the girls (again) that they are supposed to empty this trash can before it is filled to overflowing.
Still on my knees, I turn to see if there are any more beads on the floor and I discover one final bead.
I discover this final bead with my kneecap. I kneel hard on the rounded plastic, and a bolt of exquisite agony takes me down to the floor, gasping for breath. I lie there on the floor between the toilet and the filling bathtub, waves of nausea rolling over me. Is it possible to shatter one’s kneecap with a single craft bead? Because that is what it feels like I have done.
I make a mental note to tell the girls (again) that being their mother is sometimes not actually the most fun I have ever had.
I lie naked on the floor and cradle my knee and wait for the pain to subside.
I use the bathroom counter to pull myself to standing, noticing as I do that there are streaks of fingernail polish slopped along the edge of the counter.
I make a mental note to remind the girls (again) that if they are going to give one another manicures, they have to be careful with the polish and use remover to clean up any spills.
I limpily climb into the tub and sink into the hot water.
This part of the bathing experience goes quite well . . . the tub holds hot water and me at the same time. I relax into the warmth. I sink back into the water and close my eyes. I do like hot water and me in the same place at the same time.
Which leaves only the getting out of the bathtub, which goes well.
And the drying off.
I reach for the large white towel that is hanging on the back of the door, sighing happily. For all of their failures, at least my daughters have left me a nice clean towel. I remove the towel from the hook and swing it over my shoulders in one smooth motion, realizing too late that more effort is required to accomplish this small task than should be required.
More effort is required because half of the towel is cold and sodden.
Not just a little wet, but wet as though it has been dipped into a body of water for some unknown reason and then wrung out just to the point that no water drips from the fabric.
I make a mental note to ask the girls (again) what the fuck is wrong with them.
I make a mental note (again) not to swear at the girls.
I wonder if I am perhaps wrapped in a towel that was used to retrieve a gleeful pee-splashing dog from the unclosed unflushed toilet.
I sniff the towel, but I am unable to be certain.
I make a mental note to ask the girls (again) what the fuck is wrong with them.
Fuck.
My knee hurts.
After I pull on my robe, I limp downstairs, where both of the dogs greet me with giddy investigatory sniffing.
So that’s not good.
