Monday, April 11, 2011


(Lady at Her Toillet, Unknown Dutch Artist, c. 1650-1680, Minneapolis Museum of Art)

While Heidi and John stew in their room of doom and gloom........

Bob and I are living the good life over at our place.

Comparatively speaking, that is.

Our room is splashed with bright yellow walls.

The Tuscan red carpet - though certainly not pristine - isn't manufacturing new biological lifeforms.

At least none that we can see.

Lively orange curtains frame the window.

The yellow bedspread is punched up with a classy Greek key pattern.

Even the toilet tissue in the en suite bath is a beautiful shade of coral.

It's fair to say that this time around, Bob and I hit the decorating jackpot.

That doesn't mean that our room is blemish free.

* * * * * *

The Bobster is up and at 'em bright and early this morning.

He wanders into the bathroom and studies the tub.

"This thing has got to be 30 inches high," he says to himself.

"How is Merry going to get in it without a ladder?"

Continuing to make mental notes, he adds, "It does have a seat built right into it. And it needs one. This tub can't be more than 36 inches long."

I wake up and ask, "What are you doing?"

"Studying the tub. You realize there is no overhead shower, don't you?"

"Yes, I scoped out the bathroom last night," I reply.

Bob says, "I'll be the guinea pig and bathe first."

I say, "Good. You can trouble shoot for me."

Several minutes later, Bob exits the bathroom saying:

"Be careful with that hand held shower."

I tread hesitantly into the bathroom.

Gathering my courage, I stare at the tub.

"Do you need help getting in?" Bob asks.

"I think I can do it," I reply.

Placing both of my hands at strategic spots on the tub's rim, I shift my weight and pull one leg up, up and up some more until I literally can't raise it another centimeter.

In one fell swoop I throw my leg over the side and onto the floor of the tub.

"I'm in!" I shout to Bob.

"Now if I can just turn around and land on that seat I'll be home free," I think to myself.

Gripping the wall with both hands, my feet slip and slide as I near the target.

"Now all I've got to do is pull off my big pirouette and I'll be sittin' pretty!" I assure myself.

Just like magic, I turn, bend and drop like a lead balloon onto the tub's seat.

I decide to award myself a wow-worthy "9" for "technique."

And for "artistic interpretation?"

A wimpy "2."

Dang it!

I missed nailing a "10" because of that graceless "lead balloon" maneuver.

But basically?

I'm stinkin' proud of myself!

Playing with the shower head nozzle, I adjust the arrow on the dial to: "torrential rain storm."

I intend to celebrate with a big time splish-splash.

I blow my eyeballs out of their sockets first.

I should have listened when Bob warned me about the shower head.

* * * * * *

Thirty minutes later, we meet Heidi and John for a quick breakfast.

"How did everything go last night?" I ask.

"I was out like a light," John says.

Then he adds, "I turned the bathroom into a waterpark this morning. The shower head went nuts. It sprayed water everywhere except on me."

"I slept pretty well," Heidi says, "until the bats woke me up."

"The WHAT woke you up?" I inquire.

"I heard bats flying outside our window so I got up, pulled the curtain aside, and saw the shadows of three bats on the building next door - at least I think they were shadows."

Bob, the batologist, informs us: "Bats avoid people. They are scared of humans."

I shudder and reply: "They can avoid us all they want. They are the creepiest creatures on earth and I never want to see one up close and personal - ever!"

Heidi adds, "Yup. They're just a little too Edgar Allen Poe-ish for me."

John says, " No worries. There's only one way to handle a situation like this. The next time I leave home I'm packin' heat."

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