Friday, April 21, 2006
Bubble Trouble
A washer and dryer, or at least a place to hook them up, was on the top of my “must have” list when we hunted apartments in Stockholm. You see, I have always had bum luck with communal laundry facilities starting with my first laundry room experience shortly after KA and I married.
I had stuffed our clothes into a dryer that had just been vacated by the laundry of our neighbor, the one who was six feet tall, weighed 130 pounds, and had hips like a snake. Later that evening, I carefully folded my husband’s freshly-laundered underwear and placed them in a drawer. The next morning, after less than two weeks of marriage, I had to come up with a plausible explanation for how skivvies that were four sizes too small ended up nestled neatly in my husband’s underwear drawer like some kind of undercover agent trying to blend in with his surroundings.
I put laundry room hassles behind me for the next 14 years when we moved from an apartment to a house in the suburbs of San Diego. Then we moved to Sweden.
My laundry room experiences here in Sweden, starting with our place in Sätra, included hauling dirty clothes outside through darkness and snow to the laundry room three buildings away, having my wet clothes held hostage by a mean little electronic box that controlled laundry room access as if it were guarding Fort Knox, and then, in Östermalm, schlepping laundry up and down treacherous basement stairs to a laundry room that surely must have been a dungeon at some point in the building’s history.
After all of this suffering in the name of clean clothes, I was sooo ready to have my own appliances again! But when we bought our place in Södermalm, there was just one problem: In the bathroom, in the spot where there should have been a normal-sized bathtub and a washer/dryer unit, there was a white abomination plugged into the very outlet where the washer and dryer should be: A humongous, six-jet jacuzzi tub. I think that’s what sold the place for KA. I, on the other hand, was not amused.
“As soon as we move in, that thing’s moving out as soon as possible!” I proclaimed.
“Aw, come on! At least try it out before you decide to chuck it. Didn’t you check out the laundry room here? It’s really nice—it’s in the same building, no stairs, no crazy access routines. . .”
“No more laundry rooms! I’m getting my own washer and dryer as soon as we can swing it after we fix the place up and that’s final!”
And with that, the subject was put to rest as we fixed and freshened and furnitured. In the meantime, my laundry room luck didn’t change. During my first visit, I misread the sign-up board and took someone else’s time, which is the last capital offense left here in Sweden.
I then managed to get my key stuck in the door and had to stand there while every male in the building walked by and tried to pull it out with their bare hands as if they were Arthur pulling the sword out of the stone. The women were smart enough to know that wouldn’t work and didn’t even try. KA ended the ridiculous drama with some pliers. On the upside, I met most of my neighbors that evening. On the downside, they learned that I’m inept. These little debaucles only made my resolve to jilt the Jacuzzi even stronger.
That explains why during the entire two months that elapsed while we fixed up our apartment, I refused to try it out, no matter how tired and sore my muscles were after a day of scraping off wall paper, painting, sanding floors, or moving furniture.
KA, true to his hedonistic nature, headed straight for the tub the first day we moved in as if he were a duck that hadn’t seen water in a year. He proceeded to use it so often I feared he would grow webbing between his fingers and toes or turn himself into a giant prune.
One of our conversations during one of his extended soaks went something like this:
“Ahhhh,” He sighed in tune with the hum of the tub’s motor. “This is wonderful! Oooooh! Like sitting in a big pool of hot champagne. Why don’t you join me? You’ll love it! It’s soooo relaxing.”
“Hot champagne? Now, that’s just gross! And no way am I getting in there. I told you, that tub’s history as soon as we’re done fixing up!”
“Just throw the laundry in here with me! This baby agitates like crazy! And look! I can adjust the intensity of the bubbles with this knob!”
I turned on my heel and walked out through the fog without so much as looking at the knob or the bubbles it adjusted. “Hey, can you at least bring me a beer?” He called after me. “Why? Isn’t ‘hot champagne’ good enough for you?” I said, slamming the bathroom door behind me.
Yes, I was hell-bent on my having my very own washer/dryer, but that’s not to say I had no contact at all with the detested tub. I did have to stand in it every day to take a shower, and I did have to clean it. It was during one of these cleaning sessions that it happened. There’s no good explanation for it. It certainly wasn’t planned. Maybe all of the physical strain of moving and fixing just got to me, made me tired, and affected my judgement. I don’t know, and I’m not offering any excuses--but we all have weak moments, don't we? OK--I’ll tell you what happened.
“Hello! I’m home!” And then, after a pause, “Where are you?…Hey! I hear the tub!” By now KA had entered the bathroom. The shower curtain was drawn, and he respectfully left it closed as he laughed at me from the other side.
“AH HA! You did it! You finally broke down and tried it out! HA!” I heard him slap his leg in glee.
"I did no such thing!" I said indignantly. Lying is always the first best defense, right?
"Come on! I'd tell you to 'come clean,' but that would be a really bad pun. I know you're in there with bubbles up to your neck!"
“Uh, I’m scrubbing the stupid thing,” I said, though not very convincingly. “Now get out and let me finish.”
“Scrubbing it? Then why are your clothes in a pile on the floor? Since when do you clean house in the nude?”
“Uh…well, you see, I don’t normally, but I saw this talk show once where these women were saying how great it was and I just thought maybe I should try it.” I winced at how lame that sounded.
“Yeah, right. And the motor? You don’t need to fill it up and run it to clean the surface.”
I sunk a little deeper into the frothy bubbles.
“Yeah, well, I. . .You know, there’s always a puddle on the floor after you get out, and I wanted to make sure it wasn’t cracked or something, so I. . .”
“Bullhocky! Your clothes are on the other side of the room, the motor’s on, the water’s bubbling, and you’re busted! Tell me you don’t love it! Come on! Tell me!”
“I’m not telling you anything!” I retorted, utterly embarrassed by my weakness for this little piece of private paradise right here in my own bathroom. He didn't hear a word I said. His one-man celebration was already in full swing.
“Yippee! We’re keeping the tub! You can’t possibly scrap it now after you’ve tried it!” I could see him silhouetted through the shower curtain doing a victory dance I was sure the neighbors could hear all the way to the ground floor.
“Yeah, yeah, We’re keeping the tub,” I said in a resigned voice. “Could you just be quiet now and bring me some hot champagne…uh, I mean, a beer?”
I had stuffed our clothes into a dryer that had just been vacated by the laundry of our neighbor, the one who was six feet tall, weighed 130 pounds, and had hips like a snake. Later that evening, I carefully folded my husband’s freshly-laundered underwear and placed them in a drawer. The next morning, after less than two weeks of marriage, I had to come up with a plausible explanation for how skivvies that were four sizes too small ended up nestled neatly in my husband’s underwear drawer like some kind of undercover agent trying to blend in with his surroundings.
I put laundry room hassles behind me for the next 14 years when we moved from an apartment to a house in the suburbs of San Diego. Then we moved to Sweden.
My laundry room experiences here in Sweden, starting with our place in Sätra, included hauling dirty clothes outside through darkness and snow to the laundry room three buildings away, having my wet clothes held hostage by a mean little electronic box that controlled laundry room access as if it were guarding Fort Knox, and then, in Östermalm, schlepping laundry up and down treacherous basement stairs to a laundry room that surely must have been a dungeon at some point in the building’s history.
After all of this suffering in the name of clean clothes, I was sooo ready to have my own appliances again! But when we bought our place in Södermalm, there was just one problem: In the bathroom, in the spot where there should have been a normal-sized bathtub and a washer/dryer unit, there was a white abomination plugged into the very outlet where the washer and dryer should be: A humongous, six-jet jacuzzi tub. I think that’s what sold the place for KA. I, on the other hand, was not amused.
“As soon as we move in, that thing’s moving out as soon as possible!” I proclaimed.
“Aw, come on! At least try it out before you decide to chuck it. Didn’t you check out the laundry room here? It’s really nice—it’s in the same building, no stairs, no crazy access routines. . .”
“No more laundry rooms! I’m getting my own washer and dryer as soon as we can swing it after we fix the place up and that’s final!”
And with that, the subject was put to rest as we fixed and freshened and furnitured. In the meantime, my laundry room luck didn’t change. During my first visit, I misread the sign-up board and took someone else’s time, which is the last capital offense left here in Sweden.
I then managed to get my key stuck in the door and had to stand there while every male in the building walked by and tried to pull it out with their bare hands as if they were Arthur pulling the sword out of the stone. The women were smart enough to know that wouldn’t work and didn’t even try. KA ended the ridiculous drama with some pliers. On the upside, I met most of my neighbors that evening. On the downside, they learned that I’m inept. These little debaucles only made my resolve to jilt the Jacuzzi even stronger.
That explains why during the entire two months that elapsed while we fixed up our apartment, I refused to try it out, no matter how tired and sore my muscles were after a day of scraping off wall paper, painting, sanding floors, or moving furniture.
KA, true to his hedonistic nature, headed straight for the tub the first day we moved in as if he were a duck that hadn’t seen water in a year. He proceeded to use it so often I feared he would grow webbing between his fingers and toes or turn himself into a giant prune.
One of our conversations during one of his extended soaks went something like this:
“Ahhhh,” He sighed in tune with the hum of the tub’s motor. “This is wonderful! Oooooh! Like sitting in a big pool of hot champagne. Why don’t you join me? You’ll love it! It’s soooo relaxing.”
“Hot champagne? Now, that’s just gross! And no way am I getting in there. I told you, that tub’s history as soon as we’re done fixing up!”
“Just throw the laundry in here with me! This baby agitates like crazy! And look! I can adjust the intensity of the bubbles with this knob!”
I turned on my heel and walked out through the fog without so much as looking at the knob or the bubbles it adjusted. “Hey, can you at least bring me a beer?” He called after me. “Why? Isn’t ‘hot champagne’ good enough for you?” I said, slamming the bathroom door behind me.
Yes, I was hell-bent on my having my very own washer/dryer, but that’s not to say I had no contact at all with the detested tub. I did have to stand in it every day to take a shower, and I did have to clean it. It was during one of these cleaning sessions that it happened. There’s no good explanation for it. It certainly wasn’t planned. Maybe all of the physical strain of moving and fixing just got to me, made me tired, and affected my judgement. I don’t know, and I’m not offering any excuses--but we all have weak moments, don't we? OK--I’ll tell you what happened.
“Hello! I’m home!” And then, after a pause, “Where are you?…Hey! I hear the tub!” By now KA had entered the bathroom. The shower curtain was drawn, and he respectfully left it closed as he laughed at me from the other side.
“AH HA! You did it! You finally broke down and tried it out! HA!” I heard him slap his leg in glee.
"I did no such thing!" I said indignantly. Lying is always the first best defense, right?
"Come on! I'd tell you to 'come clean,' but that would be a really bad pun. I know you're in there with bubbles up to your neck!"
“Uh, I’m scrubbing the stupid thing,” I said, though not very convincingly. “Now get out and let me finish.”
“Scrubbing it? Then why are your clothes in a pile on the floor? Since when do you clean house in the nude?”
“Uh…well, you see, I don’t normally, but I saw this talk show once where these women were saying how great it was and I just thought maybe I should try it.” I winced at how lame that sounded.
“Yeah, right. And the motor? You don’t need to fill it up and run it to clean the surface.”
I sunk a little deeper into the frothy bubbles.
“Yeah, well, I. . .You know, there’s always a puddle on the floor after you get out, and I wanted to make sure it wasn’t cracked or something, so I. . .”
“Bullhocky! Your clothes are on the other side of the room, the motor’s on, the water’s bubbling, and you’re busted! Tell me you don’t love it! Come on! Tell me!”
“I’m not telling you anything!” I retorted, utterly embarrassed by my weakness for this little piece of private paradise right here in my own bathroom. He didn't hear a word I said. His one-man celebration was already in full swing.
“Yippee! We’re keeping the tub! You can’t possibly scrap it now after you’ve tried it!” I could see him silhouetted through the shower curtain doing a victory dance I was sure the neighbors could hear all the way to the ground floor.
“Yeah, yeah, We’re keeping the tub,” I said in a resigned voice. “Could you just be quiet now and bring me some hot champagne…uh, I mean, a beer?”
# posted by Karen @ 10:04 AM 
