With the Wellworth still ever so gently--yet annoyingly--gurgling away, let me continue to rag on my poor bathroom. My poor "bano cubanazo," which prompted me to buy my house in the first place.
Actually, it was the bidet that reminded me of times gone by. But then I got a good look at this tub. Good golly, just look at it!
After various "incidents," Yoyi Gooch couldn't resist getting on her soapbox. If you need a translation, just let me know, ok?
THE UNBEARABLE SLOPE OF MY TUB
BY YOYI GOOCH
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.
