In which I quash any semblance of romance in this vacation...
Thus far I've spent quite a bit of time in the huge jetted tub in our marble bathroom. I'm already the bubble-bath queen, and the only thing better than a hot bubble bath is a hot jetted bubble bath. One has to be very, very sparing with the bubble bath, though, because the jets make lots of bubbles. And by "lots" I mean...well, do you remember that "Wonka Wash" scene in Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory, where foam is everywhere and multiplying expotentially? Like that. So it's important not to overdo the bubbles.
I'm relaxing in the tub, feeling the jets massage my back, a scented candle handy and a glass of wine even handier. I invite Alan to join me, luring him in with a remark about how the jets will do his back a world of good but once he gets in, I have to scoop some bubbles off the top of the tub (simple matter of displacement) and after the second or third time of this, he decides that it will be best to turn off the jets, let the bubbles dissipate and drain a little of the water out so the tub's not so full. Fine.
I feel that I should point out that it is Alan who is in charge of the bath drain and the judgment of sufficient drainage.
After a few minutes, he tells me to restart the jets, as I am in charge of the on/off button for them, so I obediently start them. We are sitting head to toe so we can both stretch out. There is no longer a large enough layer of water above the jets to stem the force of water shooting from them, and so the jet behind me that is not blocked by my back shoots a huge gout of water Alanward, catching him full in the face, getting soapy water in his eye, soaking his hair and nearly displacing his glasses.
Oh noes! I need to help my husband! So I start scrabbling around for purchase, thinking I needed to get out of the tub, over to the towels and hand my poor sweetie a towel to make amends. Of course, it would have been better had I decided to help him by turning off the damn jets - as he pointed out once I was halfway out and had to scramble to get back over to the side of the tub where the button was.
There are only two of us, but except for that minor mathematical detail, it's like The Three Stooges, it really is.
Thus far I've spent quite a bit of time in the huge jetted tub in our marble bathroom. I'm already the bubble-bath queen, and the only thing better than a hot bubble bath is a hot jetted bubble bath. One has to be very, very sparing with the bubble bath, though, because the jets make lots of bubbles. And by "lots" I mean...well, do you remember that "Wonka Wash" scene in Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory, where foam is everywhere and multiplying expotentially? Like that. So it's important not to overdo the bubbles.
I'm relaxing in the tub, feeling the jets massage my back, a scented candle handy and a glass of wine even handier. I invite Alan to join me, luring him in with a remark about how the jets will do his back a world of good but once he gets in, I have to scoop some bubbles off the top of the tub (simple matter of displacement) and after the second or third time of this, he decides that it will be best to turn off the jets, let the bubbles dissipate and drain a little of the water out so the tub's not so full. Fine.
I feel that I should point out that it is Alan who is in charge of the bath drain and the judgment of sufficient drainage.
After a few minutes, he tells me to restart the jets, as I am in charge of the on/off button for them, so I obediently start them. We are sitting head to toe so we can both stretch out. There is no longer a large enough layer of water above the jets to stem the force of water shooting from them, and so the jet behind me that is not blocked by my back shoots a huge gout of water Alanward, catching him full in the face, getting soapy water in his eye, soaking his hair and nearly displacing his glasses.
Oh noes! I need to help my husband! So I start scrabbling around for purchase, thinking I needed to get out of the tub, over to the towels and hand my poor sweetie a towel to make amends. Of course, it would have been better had I decided to help him by turning off the damn jets - as he pointed out once I was halfway out and had to scramble to get back over to the side of the tub where the button was.
There are only two of us, but except for that minor mathematical detail, it's like The Three Stooges, it really is.
4 Comments:
Ha! That was lovely. Thanks.
By
Anonymous, at 10:38 PM
It makes me giggle every time I think about it, but then I get stern with myself on Alan's behalf. "It's not funny!", I tell myself. Of course, I'm wrong and it is kind of funny. I promise that I would've laughed had it happened to my beloved, as long as there was no permanent injury. Although, there was the time that she probably broke her toe tripping over a baby gate and I still marvel at how far she launched herself down the hallway before ending up laying face first on the floor, moaning & groaning.
But, Helly has a special knack for weird stuff happening to her. It must be so she'll have blog fodder forever, and I greatly appreciate the universe giving her writing material always.
By
Anonymous, at 11:57 PM
LOL! (Sorry, Alan!)
mom
By
Anonymous, at 8:05 AM
Ha! (Alan, I do feel for you) but this was funny.
By
basil, at 8:19 AM
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