Romanticizing the Claw Foot Tub…Don’t Do it.

This isn't a photo of our bathroom but it's pretty much the same tub.

This isn’t a photo of our bathroom but it’s pretty much the same tub.

When we were taking a first look at the condo we eventually bought, there was one thing that stuck in my mind when we left – the beautiful claw foot tub in the master bathroom.  I had never lived anywhere that had a claw foot tub so I had nothing but romantic ideas about the tub.  I imagined sipping wine while taking a luxurious bubble bath.  Well…that’s pretty much where the romantic thoughts ended because, well, that’s where the movies’ portrayal of the tub ends too.  Regardless, I was excited at the prospect.

The day we moved in, I couldn’t wait to use the tub – albeit a shower.  This is precisely when my hatred started.  Have you ever taken a shower in one?  It’s the worst.  I can’t tell you how many times I’ve banged my shin as I’ve raised my leg high but not high enough to clear it’s sides.  Then once your inside, it’s like you are wrapped in a cocoon of shower curtain. Seriously, it’s a 360 wrap of curtain.  Then, comes the lack of shelving for shampoo and soap.  Because it doubles as a shower, I can’t buy one of those pretty wooden shelves that rests on the tub.  Instead, we balance our stuff on the edge, leaned against the wall…this starts another world of problems.

A claw tub does not sit flush to the wall.  Instead it has approximately six inches on every side.  Six inches of space that allows the filth of shower and wetness to get into the crevice of every stone that surrounds it.  I almost knocked myself out, followed by getting stuck when trying to clean it.  I had my arm as far as I could stretch, trying to reach the floor and darkness below.  Before I knew it, I slipped into the most precarious position that I thought for a moment I might die of starvation.  There was no way I was getting out of it on my own.

So this is my warning.  If you ever have the chance to have a claw foot tub, don’t…well, unless you have a separate shower,  Then, totally do it because they are pretty.  But only do it, if you don’t plan to take baths.  Those are worse than the showers.

You’ve been warned.



Toy poodle or feret on steroids?  You decide.Photo source: Yahoo!

Toy poodle or feret on steroids? You decide.
Photo source: Yahoo!

Most Mondays, I question that I chose working as a career.  Why couldn’t I have majored in vacation?  I am really good at sitting, eating, smiling, enjoying, relaxing, drinking and sleeping.  Basically, I bring all the skills needed to be the CEO of Vacation.  Yet, nine years post college, here I sit (in a cube no less) every Monday daydreaming about five day weekends and two day work weeks, asking myself, why?  

Usually to make myself feel better, I take a five minute break here and there to catch up on the latest and greatest on the interwebs.  Yahoo!, known for its groundbreaking reporting and stories, is where I typically start.   This morning was no different and as I perused the carousel I saw a headline that read, Man buys toy poodles, discovers they are actually ferrets on steroids.  Um, yes please – tell me more.  

As it turns out, there is a market in Buenos Aires that sells “puppies” that are actually ferrets and rats.  They pump varmints up with steroids, fluff their hair and scam people.  Now, I’ve seen both rats and ferrets.  They are both disgusting, smelly animals that I am shocked could be mistaken for puppies.  But then I thought about it for a bit.

If I were the CEO of Vacation, Buenos Aires would definitely be on my list of destinations.  I would sleep in, eat a lot and drink more.  Then, after I had a substantial buzz, I would wander around the city taking in the sights, which would most likely include a visit to La Salada, Argentina’s largest bazaar.  In a vacation high, I would wander up and down the aisles of the market seeking out the cutest puppies.  I would pick them up and cuddle them, disregarding every red flag like the weasely movements and hissing. 

“What a cute puppy!” I’d exclaim to my vacation employees. 

“I want one.  If I could just hold onto him.”  I would look around as the puppy shimmied out of my arms.

“Do you sell leashes?” I’d ask the booth owner.

“Perfect!  I’ll take both puppies and two leashes.”  Then, my vacation high would be replaced with a puppy haze of happiness except that they weren’t really puppies.  They were ferrets.  And ferrets are weasels.  And weasels are gross and mean.  I would feel like the dumbest CEO of Vacation so I would try to hide the puppy scandal from everyone around the world.  I would fear getting fired from vacation. 

Then, my work phone rang and snapped me back to reality – maybe a career in working after all isn’t so bad.  I hate ferrets.

What is weird, anyways?

I wear my mini top hat every opportunity I get, which is a lot.

I wear my mini top hat every opportunity I get, which is a lot.

I remember the first time someone called me weird. I had always been considered weird because I didn’t talk like everyone else. My parents were Yankees, and ‘ain’t’ wasn’t a part of my vocabulary. But no one had ever said it to my face until high school. I would have been insulted no matter who told me, but because it came out of the mouth of my weirdest friend, it really hurt.

Annie was smart, funny and quirky. I never knew what would come out of her mouth, her driving made me want to pee myself in fear, her choice in boys was questionable and she was awkward. I liked her a lot but if she thought I was weird? Well, I was in trouble.

For me, being different in high school was not desirable. I wanted to fit in with the crowd, go by unnoticed and unscathed. And while I liked Annie, I thought her weirdness brought her down. I was naïve to the fact that being weird is a good thing.

This mustache, which is awesome by the way, was a 29th birthday present.

When I went to college, I left a lot behind – my friends, my family and my image. I was dropped off in a Midwestern town ten hours from my Southern roots. I knew no one. My accent was different again but in a good way. To them, I had a Southern accent. It was like everything in my life had flipped. I no longer had to play to the small town image I had – responsible and straight laced with a bit of a stick up my butt.

This is an array of my favorite hats.  The head dress was for a birthday, the balloon hat for Lollapalooza and the warrior hat for a race.

This is an array of my favorite hats. The head dress was for a birthday, the balloon hat for Lollapalooza and the warrior hat for a race.

I was relaxed in college. It was a fresh slate without any preconceived notions so I let my freak flag fly. I let it out occasionally in high school, but it was never flown for a long period of time. I hoisted the flag sometime my first semester of college and have never taken it down since. Today, I’m weirder than ever.

I was talking to my trainer yesterday, when she said, “I saw your New Year’s photos on Facebook. I love your mini top hat. It’s the same one from Halloween, right?”

This shirt was for a trip to Toronto to visit Lana.  Evelyn, Lana and I wore different kitten shirts for a day of site seeing at Niagara Falls and winery tours.  Classy.

This shirt was for a trip to Toronto to visit Lana. Evelyn, Lana and I wore different kitten shirts for a day of site seeing at Niagara Falls and winery tours. Classy.

My mini top hat is black and sparkly with a bow. In the middle of the bow is a skull and cross bones. I originally bought the hat for a friend’s bachelorette party but have since worn it every opportunity I get. It’s weird. Yet, most everything I do is weird.

I wore this for my 25th birthday.
I wore this for my 25th birthday.

For this post, I was originally going to show only a picture of my mini top hat but then I got the idea to look through some pictures for some other Elyse weirdness. After about ten minutes and a lot of photos, a pattern emerged – crazy hats. They are one of my favorite things. When I have on a hat, I am allowed to be silly, and it’s like a costume without the commitment. It’s a win, win.

I also found pictures of various wigs and some kitten attire. In every picture, I’m with a group of friends with smiles on our faces. We are having fun, laughing like hyenas and enjoying life with flair. If that’s weird, well, I’ll take it. Being weird is much better than being ordinary.


Yowza…Liebster Award Nomination

The first thing I look for when I sign into WordPress is the notification button.  While it may seem vain, I love the idea that someone enjoys what I write or even better identifies with me and leaves a comment.  My dream is to be a published author so I can get out of my cube and instead spend my days pining away at a computer.  I have so many ideas for that first book and have started it many times, but so far they have been failed attempts.  I struggle translating the stories I tell myself in the car or lying in bed to something I’m happy with on paper.  I hope it happens one day, but until then, I will continue to get practice through my blog – playing with various styles of dialogue, descriptions and the flow of a story.

On Friday, I signed into WordPress to see what was going on in the blog world.  Much to my delight, there was an orange comment box.  I clicked on the comment to read it and much to my surprise, I was nominated for a Liebster Award (thanks again, mannalexandra, for the nomination).  I am incredibly flattered to be bestowed such an honor! This award comes with some homework, such as telling more about me, answering questions and paying it forward. 

Okay, here goes!

As a nominee, I have to do the following:

  • Post eleven facts about myself
  • Answer the questions the tagger has set for me and create eleven questions for the bloggers I nominate
  • Choose some people (with fewer than 200 followers) to give this award to and link them in my post
  • Go to their page and tell them
  • Remember, no tag backs

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