Thursday, February 25, 2010

Mr. Bubble

It's a snowy afternoon here in Colorado, which is actually kind of nice. I had to race home from Pilates to meet the HVAC guy who was here to fix our heat for the second time in a week. Kinda need heat in the winter in these parts. So I'm upstairs, barricaded with Grady so that the poor guy is not mauled and I'm waiting. And waiting. And waiting some more. He calls me down and proceeds to explain the entire (rather complicated) boiler situation. I DON'T CARE. I just want my heat fixed. So three hours later, it's determined that a faulty valve has been installed and that's that. But then he wants to chat. I DON'T WANT TO CHAT. I'm not a chatter! What I want to do is this: get in my awesome bathtub and soak in a big ol' pile of bubbles, try to "find my center" and relax a little. Maybe even light a candle. If it were an acceptable hour to commence boozing I would have poured a glass of the zin'. But alas, it was not. Anyway, he finally leaves and I fire up the tub, pour in the Mr. Bubble (which I swear's the only stuff that truly fills your bath with bubbles. Oh, and Mr. Bubble says he "makes getting clean almost as much fun as getting dirty". Wouldn't be too sure about that one Mr. Bubble......shit......I'm arguing with a bubble) and soak my troubles away. I get in, am looking out the window at the deer and the red rocks and SPLASH. Grady is halfway in the tub. The half that wasn't in apparently thought this was great sport as his tail was wagging a mile a minute. Oh, for fuck's sake. Have to get up, naked as a jaybird and extract dog from tub. This ruined the mood. And was not very relaxing. So now, I think I'm going to grab some firewood, make a fire and try to read for a little before it's time for Jack to get home. Why am I under the distinct impression that this is not going to happen? Probably because it's not. Dogs. What a good idea. He will grab a log from the fireplace while I'm trying to light it, probably partially lit. He will then carry the flaming log in his mouth while he tears around the pool table, a frantic me in hot (no pun intended) pursuit. Odds are, something is going to end up on fire and it's probably going to be me.

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