I feel as though I should compose an ode to my new bathtub. I'm sure it's unhealthy to be so utterly in love with a a plumping fixture, but there you have it. It's a real bathtub, a great white-enameled, cast-iron, claw-footed beast that seems as though it would hold at least twenty or thirty gallons. After years and years of those atrocious, shallow, modern, plastic shower thingies, it's far beyond wonderful to have a real tub again. I think we took this place largely on my immediate love for that damned tub. But during my first bath in it, Saturday night, we discovered a veritable fairy ring of enormous mushrooms growing beneath it. We had them removed today, and hopefully they won't be back. They were a bit unnerving, lurking there beneath my tub like something that had blown here all the way from Yuggoth, riding silently on the solar winds, looking for a bathroom to haunt.
We brought Sophie over today, and she promptly climbed up inside the living-room chimney. I thought for a moment she was gone for good, put then Spooky reached up into the dark and pulled her sooty ass back out again. Despite a washcloth bath, she's still a very dirty cat. Steps are being taken to avoid a repeat performance.
Okay, I'm going to go lay on the bedroom floor and watch movies on Spooky's iBook and try not to think about moving. I need a new vertebral column (and, it would seem, a frelling new scanner).