There is one place in our home that I consider sacrosanct. It’s a peaceful inner sanctum where I can meditate, think things through, and just bare myself completely. It’s our huge, wonderful master bathroom.
I love to linger in the shower, exfoliate my entire body, shampoo and condition my hair, and slather on lotion and a touch of fragrance. This is my ritual, and I hold it sacred.
We also have a second, smaller bathroom. It has a tub shower, sink, and commode and serves as a guest bathroom. Lately, though, it has become the domain of our 14-year-old, the Briteen.
This kid spends more time showering, primping his hair, and spritzing on cologne than I do. He gets it from his grandfather and my husband, the Brit, who owns more body washes and fragrances than I have. Our place smells like a French bordello by the time these two finish their morning ablutions.
Thank God we have two bathrooms. It takes the Briteen no less than 45 minutes to relieve his bowels (considering how much food this growing boy eats, I’m not surprised). He does this while wearing earphones, not to listen to music as much as to tune me out.
I know what you’re thinking. That he’s up to something else if he’s taking so long. Not possible with me yelling every five minutes, “Hurry up! I need to get in there!” I mean, who could focus?
“Use your own bathroom!” he bellows.
“I can’t,” I bellow back, “Your Granddad is in there!”
My husband considers our master bathroom his own private club and I mean this in the British sense. I half expect him to announce each morning, “Should anyone miss me, I shall be at my club.” His lordship languishes on the throne for ages, perusing the sports page for soccer news and results.
“Hey, Waterman!” I’ll shout. “It’s not a reading room! Do you mind? Some of us have needs!”
“Bloody hell, woman!” he roars. “Use the other bathroom!” When these guys simultaneously occupy both bathrooms, worlds collide!
I am a woman in the final throws of menopause with a bladder the size of a peanut. I must pee often and my two housemates drive me pee nuts!
Just training them to aim and wipe the seat if they miss took years of cajoling, pleading, and threats of bodily harm. And you’d think we live on a cattle farm once these two get going. I don’t dare turn on the stove for fear of a methane explosion!
Last month the unthinkable happened. We returned from a weekend away with family to discover water covering our master bath and closet floors. Bad news, our plumber notified us. A hot water pipe had burst in the wall behind our shower.
I called our homeowners’ insurance company. Adjuster James quickly and efficiently assessed the damage and sent Tony from Service Master with fans that looked like they came from a Hollywood blockbuster movie set. He tore out the drywall, which was no longer dry, and fired up his engines.
Those fans blew noisily—even with the door closed—for three days and nights without stopping. It sounded like the Blitzkrieg, causing the Brit to wake a few times from his sleep yelling, “Incoming! Get to a shelter!”
Tony did a terrific job of drying the rooms and alleviating any mold. Next, Ed and Ryan from Simons Construction arrived to rebuild our bathroom. The sliding-door shower stall was replaced with a larger shower and swinging glass door, plus safety bars for my hubby. Alan repainted the new drywall and removed the toilet for the flooring guys and returned to reinstall it.
I wanted the same marble-look tile and Hector from Carpet One Flooring found it. This entire league of extraordinary gentlemen did a wonderful job of restoring our bathroom to an even lovelier space. It was well worth the wait, but oh, what a wait!
God help us, my spouse and I were reduced to sharing the small bath with our Briteen. This required serious coordination and cooperation from all concerned that made the allied invasion of Normandy look like a tea dance. It also meant mad dashes through the living room to use the bathroom in the middle of the night.
One party who was decidedly unhappy about the whole thing was the Briteen. We two old geezers were invading his space. He was now forced to take shorter showers and make quick work of his bathroom time.
My husband has balance problems, so I help steady him in and out of the shower onto a small seat, lest he slip and fall. I scrub his back, help him step out, and rub him down with a fluffy towel. This is called love!
On the first evening without access to our master bath he kept whining about getting his shower. I was exhausted from dealing with myriad construction issues, as well as a very painful right shoulder. I was in no mood for nonsense.
“All right, let’s go!” I barked like a field marshal. Our sulking grandson put the shower bench in the tub and skulked to the living room. I got my husband stripped down and turned on the shower.
“Get in, honey,” I beckoned, but, no. He put his left leg in the shower and stopped.
“This is too small for me,” he dithered. “I change my mind.”
“No way, buster! You put your other foot in this shower right now!” I ordered. The Brit adamantly refused.
“I’ll wait until I can use our shower,” he insisted.
“That won’t be for days!” I’d finally had enough. Through gritted teeth I growled, “So help me God, if you don’t put your other leg in this shower right now I’ll rip it off and beat you over the head with the bloody end of it!” This is tough love!
My husband stared at me like I was berserk, called me a wicked cow, and got in the shower. At the same time, I heard loud, raucous laughter from the other room. The Briteen had stopped sulking at the thought of me bludgeoning my husband with his own leg.
“Good one, Grandma!” laughed my boy. “You’re a funny wicked cow!”
Moo!
Ariel Waterman loves a fragrant bathroom. Send her some scented candles via Arts Editor Joe Payne at jpayne@santamariasun.com.
This article appears in Aug 18-25, 2016.