Bathtub of Horror

Like most people, I enjoy a good soak in the tub. It's not about getting clean, because, really, you are just sitting in a soup of your own skin cells and hair and fart bubbles. No, if you want clean, take a shower. Bath time is for relaxing and for getting your body back up to normal temperature after having too much frozen smoothie.

In all the apartments I've lived in I've had horrible little 4 foot long tubs where I had to choose between my shoulders or my knees being in the water, unable to stretch out. So, if my shoulders were warm, then my knees were cold and wet, waiting their turn in the soak.

 When I was able to buy my first condo, I was thrilled that it came with a soaker sized jacuzzi tub! Oh the relaxing times I would have with a book and a glass of wine. Just like they show women in the movies when they want "me" time.

Or "Look At Me" time.

Word to the wise, don't spend extra on the jacuzzi tub. That thing sounds like you're sitting next to a jet engine and really doesn't do much more than make you super annoyed and stressed. Ahhhh, I think I'll take a long soaky bath in this screaming water belcher. Not so much.

I have a friend who once had a huge, round jacuzzi tub that had, like, disco lights in it, and a sound system. I felt my life meaningless whenever I saw that tub.

When Weirdo and I bought the house we are in now, again, it came with a jacuzzi tub in the ensuite. It was a good soaker length, so I knew I'd be able to fit my monkey arms and legs in and everyone would be happy and toasty, even if I knew enough to avoid the jacuzzi option.

la la la la la la la la la la

Except by the time it makes its way to the top floor, There is only enough hot water to fill the tub about 25%. And then the rest is tepid, and then plain cold, water. They call this "energy efficiency". I call it straight up hateful. I had to bring a kettle up and boil water several times, adding it to the cooling water, just to get the tub at a temperature where I wasn't having shivering fits while hugging my knees. It wasn't perfect but it worked.

Until I realized that millipedes had set up light housekeeping in the jacuzzi jets of the tub.

this effing thing

So finally I am laying back in the tub, the cares of the day floating away, getting my body temperature to just above reptile, and next to me I spy a little floaty friend with a billion horrifying legs, and razor sharp jaws (probably).

I removed myself from the tub.

Just a one off, perhaps? No. They live in my freaking bath tub. Whole families. Generations of creepy alien insects. A veritable Forsyth Saga of Shuddering.

So I no longer take baths because it's too cold, and too damned terrifying

The cats are fascinated, though, and will sit inside the tub, staring at the nozel like its full of (billion legged) cat treats.

Once in awhile they catch one and I will find only a few rogue icky legs, that might be mistaken for leg hairs, but really aren't.

It's only showers for me, sadly. So I am clean, but cold and unhappy.

There is no God.