Apocalypse Man and the (TTQ) Bathroom...
This is me. Moyo. Sleeping under the crochet blankie Mom made for me from the Bottom Half of a Crochet Jacket she made. I am sleeping in her Trailer Trash Queen Studio.
Here’s the thing: my Mom Loves to Bath. Rather like Cleo, she is Wont To Wallow - albeit that her baths don’t Smell like Ass, but rather of the Lavender she lovingly drops drip by drop into the water. Granted, too, unlike Cleo, my Mom does Not have Hunky Men, eunuch or other, ladling Warm Milk over the Fabled Rounds of her Breasts (probably because - again unlike Cleo, my Mom’s Boobage has rather given in and settled for a trajectory towards the vicinity of her navel. Mom was Delighted to discover the Joys of the Wonder Bra - what she had Come To Believe to be her belly, she discovered, was actually her boobage. But I digress…)
So. As usual Google was Most Helpful. THIS is what it offered Mom when she went looking for a pic of Cleopatra taking an Ass Milk Bath...
So, Know This. My Mom is Inordinately Fond of Her Bath. Probably the Most Favourite Room in our beautiful house in South Africa was Mom’s bathroom, around the walls of which she had written poetry and lines from the Best Poem of All Time…. The Owl and The Pussycat, all sparkled with rainbow lights from the crystals which hung from fishing line in the huge window.
The bath in that room was Big. It was Deep. It Cossetted Mom as she Wallowed All Steeped in Lavender Water. (That Lavender in the water also made Mom feel A Whole Lot Better about the times she Nodded Off and Dropped Whatever Book she was Reading into the Steamy Depths. At least, once dried out and prised apart, the pages of the Aforementioned Drowned Book could Waft Lavender about the place) From the Window of that bathroom, Mom could watch the Koi Shenanigans in the pond below and, at night, she would be Serenaded by the Cacophony of about a Squillion Frogs, their Voices in All Shapes and Sizes in the night….
Me, Moyo. On the bench at the Koi Pond @ our Old House.
ANYWAY. Suffice it that, as you well know, we don’t Live in South Africa anymore -we Live in Canada now… and we don’t even Live IN A HOUSE.
We - my Mom and Dad and me, Moyo, all live in the Noahbago. The Bastards used to live in here with us, but now they live with Mom and Dad’s Youngest Girl and her Fiancé in Calgary because they were Adopted By Them. So now it’s Just me, Moyo - and I get to listen to Mom Bleat About Stuff.
One of the Bleatable Things she likes to Whinge About is the Fucking Shower in The ‘Bago. You already Know This. She has Gone ON About it. At Great Length. Mom Loathes and Detests That Shower. She Wanted a Bath!
Ok. So.
Reminder: The Bago is 37 feet long. It has a Rather Fabulous Bed in the bedroom part. It has a Dinette table, two Benches, a Sofa, a Chair, a Stove, Fridge, AND a Kitchen Sink. It has Loads of Cupboards (complete with Enough Mirrors to satisfy some Demented 70’s Designer’s Dream of Being a Porn Set Designer) AND it has a Bathroom. In which is a Basin, More Cupboards, More Mirrors, a Flushable Bog - and The Shower. Which Mom Loathes. On account it’s Teeny. And even if it wasn’t? Mom Loves to Bath.
But you Get The Picture. Not one Square Inch Available within for a Bath. Mom has tried filling the footwell of the shower and then Squeezing Herself into it, her legs sticking out like a beached…. WAIT! Whales don’t have legs. Like a beached Hippo. Her Body sticks out the other side. Only her Butt gets wet. Sort of. And there’s definitely No room for Anything Remotely Resembling Washing Movements. So, Altogether Unsatisfactory in the Bath Department.
Enter my Dad.
My Mom always says that she only married him for when the Apocalypse Comes. She knows he will be the One Able to Open Any of the jars Mom will be forced to forage from the abandoned stores and other people’s larders. Mom reckons he could also make some Pretty Nifty air-purifying mask thingies if the ozone machine he made when they lived in Tanzania is anything to go by.
Mom watched Dad build an entire Bush-Bog at our Old House, complete with a shower and a bog with a view of the ocean. (That was because Mom got sick of Dad and his mates Peeing in the Bushes out at the pool when we had braais. She wanted to know How Come they did this when the house had THREE perfectly marvelous lavatories.
Dad said something about it being the Call of the Wild. Mom said I’ll show you wild. Stop Peeing in my Arums and Elephant Ears, you guys! So, Dad spent a weekend or two and he built that Bush-Bog. (A skill which may (or not) be useful when the Apocalypse comes - it will depend upon the Zombie Quotient and whether or not he has to best use his time building Zombie Traps and Mind Machines with which to Domesticate them so that they can do stuff like Wash Dishes because that’s another thing Mom likes to Bleat about. But THAT’S for Another Story!)
Dad. Masterfully Building the Bush-Bog...
Me, Moyo. When I FOUND MOM. She thought she could Get Away from me by Going to The Lav in the Bush-Bog without Informing me, Moyo. Ha-Ha!
This last weekend? What did my Dad do?
He took an Old Tin Bath he scrounged… and he made my Mom a Bathroom Fit for a (Trailer Trash) Queen… OUTSIDE the Bago. He used old boards, an old cupboard, poles, and planks, and plastic sheeting and he made a Bathroom complete with a BATH for Mom at the back of the Outside Palace - which is the tent in which Mom spends her days like a Trailer Trash Queen.
The TTQ BATH - a Thing of Magnificence. In which Mom Wallows Most Contentedly.
My Dad is SO clever… he made that bathroom all Winterised, too. (On account we are living in the Fucking Tundra, practically!) He stuffed all the nooks and crannies of it with Insulation Fluffy Stuff, made a drop-down curtain to close it all in…he made a wooden floor for it - he even found some old discarded MIRRORS and slapped them up. The Bago has an outside shower hose all tucked away in a little compartment at the back (for reasons best known to that 70’s designer) and so Dad rigged it so that that hose feeds into Mom’s bath. All she has to do is let the water heat up with the gas for a bit first, batten down the hatches around the bath to keep it all cosy-warm and steamy, open the tap, drop in some lavender oil - and Hey, Presto!!
No More Whining.
About a Bath, at least.
So. Now my Mom knows that she was right to marry my Dad. Never mind opening jars and shit…when the Apocalypse comes? He can rebuild the world…one bathroom at a time.
P.S. Mom says she is Thrilled About the Fact that Canada seems to LIKE using LOADS of Good Quality Plastic Containers for the Stuff to be bought at the stores, and therefore there is always an Ample Assortment of the Things About the Place. Cleopatra may well have had milk trickled over her bosom (prior to it being pierced by an Angry Asp) from a solid gold chalice, but that is Nothing Compared to the Marvellous Efficiency of a Little, Round, Plastic Tub that Once Housed a Chicken Crockpot Pie.
P.P.S. Remember the Heater? That Mom’s Sit-Upon Sat Upon? When she forgot she had put it up on the Bog in The Bago and decided she needed a pee? And backed into it and sat down? That Heater?
Dad has rigged it up in the Bathroom so that it heats the little room up Before Mom Baths in the Old Tin Bath. He has ALSO made sure it is Nowhere Near Anywhere Mom Might Decide to Park her Bum. And IF she does? Well, then…
Here are some MORE pics of Mom's TTQ Lounge that Dad has made for her...Please NOTE the sofa! It is the backseat of the Car that Mom and Dad had which Caught On Fire three weeks after they bought it...Mom is VERY proud of it. She believes that if one is to be a TTQ, then one simply Must Commit. (Observe the Light-Up Garden Gnomes outside The Bago. These Seal The Deal!)
