Bathtubs and Telephones!

I read a quotation that there were 25 years between the time that the bathtub was invented and the telephone came about. Talk about a heavenly time. Just think about sitting for hours and hours in a tub of hot, steamy water topped off with a foot of bubbles, reading your favorite romance book ... and the telephone does not ring.

I’m sure there were even a few years past that first quarter of a century when women folks could bathe without the phone ringing. Then the bathtub engineers joined up with the bubble bath, water company and laundry soap folks and came up with an ingenious idea. Put a pressure gizmo on the bottom of the bathtub that sends a signal to the telephone company to put forth all calls to your number immediately.

That way the person in the tub has to crawl out, wrap a towel around her body and answer the phone. While she’s gone the water gets cold, the bubbles go flat and the towel she wrapped up in is soaked. Consequently, the water must be drained and new run, another six ounces of bubble bath used and a new towel drug out when the second attempt is done.

Sounds like a conspiracy to me!!

A couple of weeks ago it happened just that way. Supper was over so all the telemarketers had gone home. I had a new book to read and bubble bath I’d gotten for Christmas and still hadn’t had time to use.

I’d just settled down to read at least half the book when the telephone rang. My first thought was to let it ring or let the answering machine pick up. But what if it was an emergency?

I hurried to find a towel, slid across the hardwood floor and grabbed the phone just in time to hear a click and the dial tone. Righteous indignation is the ability to be mad without using swear words. My indignation was slightly tarnished.

Back to the tub. At least the water was still warm and the bubbles still floated on top like froth on hot chocolate. That thought almost made me hungry enough to abandon the tub and go to the kitchen, but I fought down the urge and crawled back in. The minute my weight hit the bottom of the tub the phone rang. With murmurings far from having a halo I grabbed the soggy towel and hurried to the phone.

“Hello!” I said grumpily.

“Hello, Mrs. Brown, this is Minnie with Neiman Marcus and our books show that your account has exceeded the five thousand dollar limit. Could you please send us a check for two thousand five hundred and fifty dollars and thirteen cents by tomorrow afternoon?”

“Hey, I do my shopping at the Goodwill stores and garage sales,” I stammered.

“This is Mrs. Rudolph Hugh Brinson Brown the fifth of Oklahoma City, isn’t it?” She said tersely.

“No, ma’am. This is Mrs. Charlie Brown the one and only of Davis, America,” I informed her just as tersely. “And she’s standing here in a frayed, soggy towel while her bath water gets cold and she does not owe Neiman Marcus a single dime, darlin’.”

“Yeah, right, and I’m Minnie Mouse. When are you going to pay this bill?” she said. Icicles dripped from her voice. But I didn’t really care. They were dripping from the ends of my towel.

“Just as soon as Miss Piggy pays me for cleaning her house and when I can talk Donald Duck into providing an answering service for folks who can’t get the right number. Have a good day, Minnie Mouse.”

By the time I got back to the tub the bubbles were flat and the water was cold. I opted for a two minute shower and some hot chocolate to sip while I read the book snuggled up on the couch. The phone did not ring again all evening. I wonder if I can pay the bathtub folks to unhook the gizmo in the bottom of the tub.