A lesson never to be forgotten

On with the moving adventures.

Thursday, November 17

After going to bed the night before just before midnight - and anyone who knows me knows I don't ever wake up and go to bed on the same day - B and I woke up early to a quiet apartment full of stuff I couldn't find. Thankfully for B my MIL had some instant coffee, an old electric kettle and a cup bought at the dollar store sitting on the kitchen windowsill so breakfast consisted of water for me, instant coffee for B and leftover cookies from the afternoon moving day coffee break the day before.

I still had a few things at my old apartment - cleaning supplies and whatnot - and so I found some clean clothes to put on and headed uptown to fetch those items and to borrow some silverware and a couple plates from my MIL until I could locate my own. While I had the car out I had the idea to drop by the grocery to get a few needed items and decided that frozen pizza would serve us well for supper. No need to find pesky pots and pans - just throw pizzas on the oven rack, bake and on to the plates. Dinner is served.

It wasn't until I got home from the store that I realized that frozen pizza was going to be impossible until I found the rack for the oven. And when I got home from the store I also realized that I'd made another horrible error.

On Tuesday night while packing my kitchen I took things from my freezer to store in my MIL's until my refrigerator was moved, plugged in and working. There were some pretty ancient items in the freezer featuring two plastic containers of beef rouladen and sauce that I'd planned on throwing away. Evidently I'd become sidetracked during this portion of my moving preparation because those freezer items were never removed from the freezer and they had in the meantime melted, leaked (the freezer portion of my refrigerator consists of three large drawers that sit below the fridge part) and refroze. It was like a frozen rouladen bloodbath.

I did have a few things going my way. First, it was cold outside so I could keep the refrigerator stuff out on the balcony while I defrosted and cleaned my refrigerator/freezer. Second, I found the oven rack so the dinner pizza was on.

After cleaning and turning back on the refrigerator/freezer I noticed that #1 I was getting frozen condensation on the freezer drawers and #2 the freezer didn't sound right when I closed the door. Turns out the freezer door was out of alignment and while the cabinet door would closed (the refrigerator is built into a kitchen cabinet), the actual seal on the freezer door wouldn't meet. It was too late in the day to call the Kitchen Guy so I planned on making that the first thing I'd do on Friday.

Things continued to go okay. Unpacking was done. Essential things like TV/harddrive recorder/digital TV service decoder box remote controls were found. Pizza was eaten. I could finally get some time to myself to take a bath and wash my filthy hair.

In my old apartment I didn't have a bathtub. Instead I had a shower whose size approximated a large phonebooth. Therefore for my new apartment I had no shower curtain, no rod on which to hang a shower curtain and no no-slip tub liner...just one for a teeny shower stall. I thought I'd take a bath, wash my hair and then over the next day or two I'd go buy these essential items so I could safely shower without falling down and hosing the bathroom down with water.

I haven't had a bath in years. I honestly couldn't remember the last time I'd actually taken a bath. Even when I had a bathtub, I only took showers. There's something about sitting in water that now contains the dirt I'm washing from my body that creeps me out. Still I was achy from hefting boxes and the like and I was looking forward to relaxing in some nice, hot water.

Germans, despite whatever stereotype Augustus Gloop may condure up for you, aren't really fat people. Sure, they have fat people but Germans aren't nearly as fat as Americans. I am American. I have an American ass. I was sitting in a German bathtub. Now the fun starts.

It was definitely a snug fit in this tub. Still, I was enjoying the bath and it made my aching feet feel wonderful to be soaking in hot water. I bathed and washed my hair and pulled out the drain plug and as the tub was emptying I thought to myself "You know, I don't think I can stand up without slipping.". I was using the small, square shower liner that I had but what I needed was a long tub liner to ensure that I wasn't going to take a header while getting out of the tub. If I scooched the liner down to my feet to give myself some grip my ass might slide down the tub. If I sit on the liner then my feet might slip out from under me.

I thought that my feet getting some grip was a better alternative so I lifted my butt up slightly to scrooch the mat down towards my feet.

Call me ample. Call me plump. Call me well rounded. Call me fat if you wish. Go ahead, use whatever adjective you wish. Personally I've begun to call my ass "Hoover Dam" because when I lifted myself off the mat, a river of water dammed up behind my butt rushed towards the drain. This, of course, did nothing to help my grip.

I got the mat down towards my feet and realized that it didn't really matter. I simply didn't have the power to heft myself up from that narrow, steep sided bathtub. I reached for the grab bar and made the discovery that one side wasn't screwed down too well and that any strenuous pulling may cause it to come out from the wall and cause me to go flying into the washing machine on the other side of the room.

At this point I thought I should call out a warning to B that I was having some trouble getting out of the tub. Ever the cool one he just replied "Okay!".

I had the idea that if maybe I turned onto my stomach I could draw my knees up under me, get in a kneeling position and then I'd be home free to grab the sides of the tub and stand up. With a bit of effort I did get myself turned over but the bottom of the tub is so narrow that I couldn't freely move to draw my knees up under me.

It was at this point I contemplated having my MIL get on a streetcar, come to our apartment and to help me get out of that tub. I had actual thoughts of having a skinny 71 year old woman help lift a wet, naked 43 year woman twice her size from a bathtub.

Desperation makes you think some strange things.

I figured that for maximum maneuverability I needed to get myself as narrow as possible in that tub and that means getting on my side - I'd think of the next step after that. With a bit more effort I was now on my right side, wet, cold and panicking.

"Please God. Please. You know what I need. Please help me get out of this tub without injuring myself. Please. I have to take care of B. He needs me. Please God, help me get out of this tub."

I tucked my arm under me, pushed myself up into a semi-sitting position and by some miracle - and I do indeed call it a miracle - I was able to sling my left leg over the side of the tub and somehow scrooch myself over until my foot hit solid ground. I was home free after that.

I dried myself and dressed myself in some warm pajamas and went into the livingroom to let B see that I was indeed fine.

"Don't you ever sit down in that bathtub again. Ever. For any reason. All I could think was me having to call the rescue squad and having to say 'Hi, I'm a quadriplegic and my wife is stuck naked and wet in our bathtub and she's unable to get out.'. All I could imagine is them breaking down the door to get in and the next day the TV stations showing up to interview the wacky American lady who got her ass stuck in the bathtub!".

Damn. And I've always wanted to be on TV too.