THE UNBEARABLE SLOPE
OF MY TUB
Yikes!
Fifteen and three-quarter inches.
And, no – I’m not referring to some outsized girlish fantasy, here. On the contrary: what could possibly be more mundane than the
length of tile that separates your long, hot shower from turning into a
scalding waterfall? And yet, measure it
I did, recently. For this is as good as
it’s going to get… given the unbearable
slope of my tub.
Good-looking types always appeal to me. Boys, and, obviously, bathrooms. I had fallen in love with my cottage’s
splendiferous white-tiled bathroom the moment I lay eyes on it. The compleat bathroom, complete with a bidet
and a Roman tub. Only an ET could have
done this, I delightedly told myself. As
beautiful as the wood floors and the lighting fixtures were, it was this
bathroom that sold me on the house. A
gulp and a plop – and a wheeze and a sneeze – later, and this little gem in
Mini Urbs was mine.
I could not wait to bask in Cleopatra-style
splendor! Alas – as I have no
jug-bearing maidservants – I had to content myself with the rain shower
sprinkle of a showerhead with which to douse myself. How paltry a flow, I thought to myself. And yet, I emerged – clambered out, rather –
from the tub to discover a trickle on the floor. As the tub is fairly recessed, I had thought
it unnecessary to purchase a shower curtain.
OK, so that’s what towels are for.
Ten days or so passed. In, and out, carefully: one foot at a time. A little swipe with an already saturated
towel, and I could proceed until my next encounter with my massive white
mountain. It was quickly turning into a
white elephant, instead: the trickle had
turned into a puddle. Ay, ya, yay! I need a shower curtain, I told myself.
Rushing to the Target, an even larger obstacle
loomed on my horizon. While my tub was
in possible danger of overflowing, I was – well, stopped up. Too much drama does this to me, sometimes. While carefully poring over the subtle
differences among plastic shower curtains, an ET couple and I began to
chat. Oh, those old houses still have
galvanized plumbing, they informed me.
In one instance they knew of, the water even began to seep up through
the floor (or so they informed me).
Yikes! Is this what was happening
in my bathroom, I began to wonder?
As much as I wanted to rush home, I had my other
delicate problem to deal with. An
explosive Thai meal should do the job, I thought. I stopped at a Thai restaurant on the way home
and ordered the HOTTEST entrée I could think of… heaping all the extra fiery side condiments
on for good measure.
With my shower curtain now firmly in place, I
decided to test it. OK, fine. So I don’t have galvanized plumbing. Now I had no choice but to focus on – my own
plumbing. In the morning, I told myself.
No such luck.
In a panic, I resorted to one of my medical specialties: my unerring ability to find the local
Emergency Room. Messily throwing some
clothes on, I uneasily wove my way through early-morning traffic until I came
to the turnoff to Doctors Hospital.
Thank heavens I’d been La Doctora Chiringa’s designated driver there on
several occasions!
Visibly squirming by this time – and severely
discomfited – I found myself in the (extremely) embarrassing position of
listing “fecal impaction” as my ailment.
Not too many people – either patients or personnel – around at this time
of the day: good. I was ushered into a treatment room, asked to
disrobe, and instructed to put on one of those flimsy hospital gowns, while
awaiting the ministrations of the doctor on call. Little did I know who – or what – was coming
my way.
A thirty-plus-year-old ghost appeared in front of
me. The doctor turned out to be the son
of one of my parents’ colleagues in that little ole sleepy town in Georgia, oh
so many years ago! Ready to tell him who
I was – and who my parents were – at a moment’s notice, I didn’t have to nudge
him too much, which was nice. What was
not so nice, however, was the examination he proceeded to give me. “If it doesn’t budge, we’ll have to surgically
extract it,” he informed me. Ay, I was
embarrassed enough as it was…
And then it happened. A nurse disdainfully instructed me to follow
her to the bathroom, where she proceeded to administer two enemas. What can I say? The second one succeeded where Mother Nature
had not been able to do the job Herself.
Physically relieved, I was, nonetheless, psychically wounded. “Warm prune juice,” the nurse sternly warned
me on my way out. At least our old
family friend sent me packing with some friendly words and with a hug.
Stopping at the Starbucks on the way home, I felt
the irresistible need to share my misadventure with someone. I called Junior – I knew he’d appreciate
it. Sure enough, he called it as it
was: “Yoyi, you’re full of ----.” We both howled, for – well – that’s what it
had been, right?
So now my plumbing was fixed… but not that of my tub. Several months later – shower curtain or no –
the trickle came back. Soon it became a
puddle that accumulated at the bottom of the steps that I had become so adroit
at handling. Positioning the shower
curtain this way and that, I finally realized it wasn’t the culprit. So what was it?
There’s a drain right next to the wall down through which
the water that accumulates from the shower is supposed to drain. Following the trail of water backwards from
the floor, I finally realized this drain was clogged. A handyman had suggested several other
remedies, to no avail. It was time to
call my trusty plumbers, yet again.
The head plumber came this time. He knew exactly what to do. He replaced the old pipe – galvanized,
copper, who knows? – with plastic tubing.
It was he who got me to thinking that the tub hadn’t been put in just
right. The ET’s had cared more about
form than about function.
At least the water wasn’t dripping to the floor any
more. It stopped – yes, fifteen and
three-quarter inches – from the ledge.
Worst of all, it just sat there, turning the grout an off-black
color. It kept doing so, as I didn’t
have a steady cleaning person until Ana La Tirana took up her post. And then she had to use a lot of bleach.
Fed up with my tub, I was ready to have it torn
down. Construction? While I was living in the house? That’s insanity, I told myself. And yet…
One day, at a favorite ET haunt, I saw several men sporting T-shirts
that advertised glass enclosures for tubs.
I’m saved, I thought.
Breathlessly explaining my predicament to the most approachable (and
attractive) one of the lot, I was not prepared for the deconstruction of my
tub.
The man – how can he know what’s going on without
even seeing it, I thought – even drew me a diagram, explaining how the slope
leading to the drain had been done wrong.
It should have been put in at an angle, rather than straight
across. The people who had designed the
tub didn’t know what they were doing…
and they certainly didn’t have a permit from Mini Urbs. How very ET of them.
Could you design a glass enclosure for my tub, I
asked him. Sure, he said. On weekends…
and with just him doing the work. Uh, oh.
That’s even more like an ET than the original work done on the tub. I think I’ll just live with the unbearable
slope (or, rather, lack thereof) of my tub.
The half-minute or so it takes me to slosh that water into the drain
after every shower is a smaller price to pay.
The wood floors and lighting fixtures are more
worthy of my praise, after all.
And...Dave Barry has his exploding toilets. I had my Wellworth:
Writhing – oops, I mean, writing – within myself
Righting some
wrongs
Introspective
To
the max
Energizing
my insides
Ranting,
railing, roiling within
‘ (A pause)
Such
is my life when I am
Blocked.
Like
my Well Worth that morning,
Out. Out it came.
Curses
– it wouldn’t flush.
Kohler,
you’re not in my corner, today.
3/28/05
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