Wednesday, August 25, 2010

Aunt Fanny, A Brass Bed, and My Potentially Dangerous Bathtub Problem


Once upon a time, I thought I was normal. That is, until my mother started a llama farm in an abandoned neighborhood. More on that later.

Anyway, as I've gotten older, I've also grown increasingly eccentric. I thought this was a common occurrence - until I figured out that other people weren't obsessed with Mexican water salamanders, phallic Bhutanese wall paintings, and giant squid. But, in the tradition of basic human nature, I'm going to blame all of this on something besides myself. Yes, that's right, I'm blaming it on genetics.

It all started a few weeks ago when I woke up at four in the morning freezing my ass off. This wasn't very surprising, since I was submerged in a tub of frigid water.

But wait, I thought. Why am I in a tub of cold water?!

See, I couldn't really remember at the time - due to a developing hangover - that I had drunk perhaps a bottle and a half of red wine earlier that evening. It was all part of my participation in a party I shouldn't have even been at, considering I had work the next day. But none of this really explains how I got to be in the bathtub.

At some point during the evening, I had decided that I was going to be responsible and go to bed. The party was at The Boyfriend's house, so this wasn't a major inconvenience - I just crawled under his covers and prepared to block out the noise coming from the living room. Unfortunately, I had not been responsible enough. I was already so drunk that the very act of lying down made me feel like I was on the deck of the fishing boat in that George Clooney disaster, The Perfect Storm.

I got up just in time to relieve myself of the contents of my stomach in the proper receptacle.

Immediately afterward, my eyes fell upon the bathtub.

Let me explain my drunken logic. Everyone in the known universe understands that to avoid hangovers, you must take the proper precautions by drinking a lot of water. I considered my science lessons from eighth grade, and the word "osmosis" seemed particularly appropriate (and amusing). Why yes, I thought, I will absorb water through my skin! Like in osmosis! It didn't occur to me that no one ever talks about taking bubble baths to cure hangovers. I didn't care. Osmosis is a natural scientific process, and therefore it was sure to work!

Shortly after drunkenly clambering into the tub, I was interrupted by The Boyfriend who had noticed I was missing from the party.

"You're in the bathtub?!" he asked incredulously.

"Yes I am!" I replied.

He saw there was no getting me out, so he returned to his other, non-bathing party guests.

Now this is where The Boyfriend fails as a boyfriend, and I fail as a human being with at least an average amount of intelligence, because - no joke here, kiddies - I completely fell asleep.

For three hours.



When I awoke at four in the morning, I had been sawing logs in the bathtub for 180 minutes. I somehow dried off and put on something resembling pajamas, dragged myself to the bed, and promptly passed out again.

When the sun rose and work beckoned, I wanted to die. I pulled on my clothes and drove to the office, and then spent the remainder of my morning trying very hard not to puke on my keyboard. Clearly, osmosis does not apply to drunk people.

Suddenly, The Boyfriend appears on gchat. The following conversation ensued:


Now, the worst part about all of this is not that my boyfriend left me drunk in a tub to die, it's that I had done this sort of thing before. Only the other time, I was alone in a hotel room. During a conference.

But anyway, my bathtub obsession is well documented. Ask anyone that knew me in high school. Or middle school. I was very prone to taking phone calls in the bathtub. Death was not a concern then either - clearly I wasn't worried about electrocution. My bathing habits had gotten to the point that my dad would knock on the bathroom door and ask if I "wanted to take a call." Lately I've even gotten in the habit of taking a glass of wine and my ebook reader into the tub with me - a deadly combination that has not resulted in my electrocution or drowning - yet.

But anyway, back to genetics.

Yes, I blame this on genetics. After the unfortunate "my-boyfriend-left-me-in-the-tub-to-drown" incident, I recalled a story about some relatives that I had heard a very long time ago. I have since verified this story with my grandfather, so what you are about to hear is all true. Beware. You might not want to be friends with me after this, because I'm probably going to turn into a crazy drunken hermit with 800 pet llamas and a half ton of gold bricks under my floorboards. (You might want to stick around for the gold bricks though.)

So. Here it goes.

Oh yeah, I haven’t changed the names. Because they are awesome.

Once upon a time, circa the late 1800s, my great-great-great aunts, Fanny and Emma, were taking the word “spinster” to a whole new level.

Neither sister had ever been married, so they did the logical thing and lived under the same roof for their entire lives. This was the same roof that their mother, Grandma Lurch (once again, these are real names) lived under.

Anyway, to make matters worse, Aunt Fanny and Aunt Emma also shared a bed. Not in a sexy way. In an it’s-the-1800s-and-my-sister-and-I-share-a-bed sort of way. Like in all those period drama mini series on the BBC.

The bed shared by Aunt Fanny and Aunt Emma was a big old brass bed with metal posts and decorative knobs and all that crap. But the bed wasn’t always big enough for the two of them – sometimes the sisters would get into terrible fights.

Fanny and Emma’s battles have become legendary. Over a hundred years later, my family is still talking about them.


Well, because, when Aunt Fanny and Aunt Emma would get into their dramatic screaming matches, the altercation was apparently never resolved by bedtime. And since the sisters shared a bed, well, something had to give.

What gave was Fanny.

Aunt Fanny – according to numerous sources – would get so hopping mad that she would gather up her blankets and pillows, march down the hall, and…


…make herself a bed in the bathtub.

Now, surely, you must understand where I’m going with this. See? It’s genetic, people! I can’t help that I have DNA-based bathtub problem! This can undoubtedly be proved through science!


Now stop making fun of me.

And stop leaving me in the bathtub to drown!

But back to the story - luckily, this story has a happy ending.

Fanny and Emma, the extraordinary stay-at-home spinster duo, were entirely supported by my great-great grandfather, as he had married a close relative of theirs. (Why, I cannot imagine. Would you marry a girl if you knew she was related to a pair of crazy broads that shared a bed and occasionally slept in a bathtub? Oh wait. Shit. No, come on now, I’m only distantly related. Sexy male readers, fear not!)


Well, after the pair passed away (probably from whooping cough or the plague or something) my great-great grandfather went to their former home to clean out their belongings. Halfway through cleaning up the mess, a workman disassembling the big brass bed calls out to him, “Sir! You should come look at this!”

So, my befuddled relation makes his way to Fanny and Emma’s bedroom, where the workmen have pulled the knobs off of the bed posts. Stuffed inside the frame are wads upon crumpled wads of cash!

They pull the bed apart and discover that Fanny and Emma have hidden seven thousand dollars in the frame of their big brass bed!

Keep in mind this is still the 1800s, and seven grand could probably pay a laborer’s salary for a year, or buy you a huge piece of property. So like, CHA-CHING.

Like I said. You should probably stick around for the gold bars I will be hiding in my crawl space in 50 years.


It’s genetic.

P.S. This post is dedicated to Matlicious on Twitter, who got my lazy butt to stop neglecting my blog. And he did it using the phrase "awesome sauce". Clearly, this guy is fan-fucking-tastic!

P.S.S. I swear I had good reasons for my blatant blog neglect. I moved. I got a new job. Shit be crazy up in here!

P.S.S.S. I promise I will explain the llamas. Soon. I swear.