Murphy's Law

The Trouble with Bubbles

by Nelson

Special thanks to Rolf for inspiring this and keeping me company while I was sick and bored out of my mind. All I needed was an idea and he gave me that. Thank you!



"Double, double, toil and trouble; Fire burn and cauldron bubble." --The Witches of Shakespeare's MacBeth



Bubbles. I like bubbles; most people do. What's not to like? They're fluffy, they're fun; in a word, they're fabulous. Even the name itself is pleasing. Roll it around in your mouth and feel the syllables dance across your lips. It's nice, isn't it? Bubbles come in various shapes and forms; almost all of which are pleasing in some way or conjure up pleasant memories.

Remember Mr. Bubble? He was a bath-time must-have when we were kids, delivering on his promise to get you so clean, your mother wouldn't know you. My mother misplaced me many a time simply because she didn't recognize me after some quality time with Mr. Bubble. Can't say I'd want him in the tub with me now – I mean, I have Keith and all – but back in the day, a kid couldn't take a bath without Mr. Bubble along for the ride. I can still remember his smiling face, grinning at me from the front of the box, exuberantly holding up his rubber ducky as he sat in his own tub of foamy bath water. Did you ever see anyone have so much fun in the bathtub alone?

But I grew up, and alas, grew away from Mr. Bubble, graduating to the occasional Bubble Bath, who I'm pretty sure is Mr. Bubble's cousin. Bubble Bath is always nice to have around to finish out a bad day. Bubble Bath is both relaxing and luxurious, each of its little soapy incarnations surrounding your body to wash away the stressors of the day. I don't indulge myself very often, though. I'm a shower guy for the most part, but on occasion, I do find time to spend with Bubble Bath. Maybe because it reminds me of simpler days with Mr. Bubble.

Let's not forget Bubble Wrap, not to be confused with Bubble Rap, the rock singer. (Not really, I just couldn't resist the pun.) Speaking of irresistible, can you even get near Bubble Wrap without reaching out and popping a few? I could sit for hours and snap a whole sheet of bubbles if no one else was around. If other people were there, they would be fighting to pop some of *my* Bubble Wrap, or go for my jugular for not stopping. It will drive everyone around you bonkers unless they're the ones doing the popping. You should try it sometimes. But I digress. The point here is that Bubble Wrap is addictive. It's as if it calls to you, "Pop me, pop *me*!"

Speaking of popping, there's also Bubble Gum, from Double Bubble all the way to Bubblicious. I remember when Double Bubble went up from a penny a piece to two cents. It was highway robbery! Never mind; I'm showing my age. Let's talk about Bazooka – the one that had the little comic strips inside the wrapper. Wasn't that the brand? Anyway, one of them had a comic inside. It wasn't like with Hubba Bubba and Bubble Yum and Super Bubble where you could just tear into it; you had to be ever so careful not to tear the comic. Yes, those were happy days, special times.

Then for those really special occasions, you have Tiny Bubbles. In the wine. Make me happy, make me feel fine. They're popular enough to get their own song, and why not? Who doesn't like the effervescent liquid of champagne exploding in his mouth as he drinks to happy times? The tingle on your tongue spreads throughout your body, leaving your limbs somewhat weightless and light. And like Don Ho said, Tiny Bubbles make me feel warm all over. Yes, they make me feel fine.

But not all bubbles are good. How about that old game Trouble? It says right on the box "there's trouble in the bubble". The bubble being the little - well, bubble - in the center of the game board housing the dice. Remember that? Hasbro's Pop-O-Matic. I can't remember enough about the game to know why there was trouble in the bubble, but that line came crashing back to me one Friday night as I contemplated bubbles. Bubbles and Trouble. Capital "b", capital "t".

That night, I found myself standing sole deep in bubbles; bubbles that had cascaded across the kitchen floor, covering it in a blanket of foam that greeted Keith and me at the garage door. Yes, there was trouble in the bubble - or bubbles, in this case. Many bubbles. Tiny bubbles. On the floor, not in the wine.

"What the hell…?" Keith utter in shocked amazement.

I had a terrible sinking feeling as though my body were being dragged down into the bottom of a giant tub filled with Mr. Bubble. This was bad. Trouble. Keith picked up his foot and looked at it inquisitively as though the answer to his dangling question lay inscribed on the sole of his shoe, or like he was checking for dog doo. It was one of the two, and I didn't see any dogs or smell anything nasty.

I glanced over at him, feeling a familiar deer in the headlights look taking over my face. I did my best to mask it as Keith looked from his shoe to me, and I watched as his expression of confusion slipped into disappointed realization.

"Oh, no," he said wearily as he gently placed his foot back on the wet floor. "Tell me you didn't have anything to do with this."

I wanted to, I really did. Clearly, he wanted me to, too. "I didn't have anything to do with this," I complied flatly.

He cut his eyes at me, and his lips pressed together, forcing me to guiltily look away, which was the appropriate thing to do, never mind the natural one.

Keith finally broke the uncomfortable silence. "Ok, first things first. Let's get this cleaned up then you can tell me all about how you 'didn't have anything to do with this'."

His tone didn't sound good, not at all. The hands-on-the-hips pose didn't help either.

"Where the hell is it coming from?" Keith asked as he launched into an exhaustive investigation, sloshing through to the kitchen.

"You might try the dishwasher," I told him half-heartedly.

He forged ahead with a glance back my way that didn't look promising, and cracked open the door of the dishwasher. He closed it fast after a quick peek inside, and gave me a sort of agitated huff. "If you did what I think you did…"

"I thought we were going to clean this up first," I cut him off.

He gave me another one of his looks that make it difficult to maintain eye contact. This was the one where I know he's as pissed as Keith gets: eyes unwavering, mouth drawn in a determined line. He's pretty patient most of the time, except when he comes home from dinner to a bubble-flooded kitchen. I can't say I blame him; I was annoyed with me, too.

"All right," he relented and placed his hands back on his hips. He turned his attention to the mess. "We need a game plan."

We surveyed the damage; the suds had made it across most of the kitchen floor but there was also the slightest bit of a wet fringe to the edge of the living room carpet where the hardwoods ended. We have one of those great room deals where the kitchen, living room and dining room are all in one big room, separated by only varying flooring and wall color.

"We need the shop vac and the carpet cleaner," Keith said, taking a step toward the garage.

I grabbed his arm before he could get too far gone and said, "I'll get them." Anything to duck out of the room and save him any extra work. It was all my fault, after all, and he didn't have to help.

I could have really used some Mr. Bubble right about then. Wonder if he could get me so clean even my partner wouldn't recognize me? I could hide in plain sight. What had I been thinking?! I tried to distance myself mentally from the trouble I had gotten into, but my stomach was already doing that lurching thing. I couldn't believe the mess I was in, figuratively and literally. Weren't bubbles supposed to keep things clean? Not messy? I guess that's only when they're confined to a place where they're supposed to be – not the kitchen floor.

I brought the equipment in from the garage and offered Keith the carpet cleaner. It was the less messy of the two jobs and I felt inclined to take the brunt of the work. It wasn't going to help anything about my situation, but still. I sucked up bubbles as best I could with the shop vac, all the while churning my story over in my head, working out the details to mitigate as much of the damage as I possibly could. But it really didn't matter about the what fors and whereabouts, and Keith already had a good idea about what happened. I mean, you probably do, too.

I used liquid dish detergent in the dishwasher. As a consequence, I was sure I'd be consequenced. Not so much for the soapy mess, but for something else that I'll get to later. The soapy mess just gave me away. About the soap, I'm not an idiot; I do know that you aren't supposed to use liquid dish soap in the dishwasher, but I thought a little wouldn't be a big deal. It wasn't like I filled both cups. The worst I thought would happen would be that the dishwasher would have too much soap inside it, in a controlled, confined space, limited to the area inside the dishwasher. I never expected that space to be expanded to the whole of the kitchen floor.

Cursing the not-so-sealed dishwasher, I studied the floor and concentrated on getting up as much soap as I could with the vacuum while Keith swapped the carpet cleaner for a mop. His part with the carpet hadn't taken long at all. It wasn't as big of a mess as I'd thought it was when I first saw it. Hopefully, there wouldn't be any damage to the flooring or carpet; it wasn't like we were swimming in suds but there was plenty of moisture.

Keith didn't say anything much the whole time we were cleaning up except to direct me here or there. You know, just the occasional "watch your step" or "hand me that towel" sort of things. In the heavy silence I thought back over the night and how a pleasant evening had turned suddenly bad.

It was a Friday night, date night. Keith and I still try to keep our regular Friday night dates just so we don't end up too obviously identifiable as an old married couple. It would be all too easy to curl up on the sofa like any other night and watch the tube, never going out except for groceries or work. We still end up inevitably on the sofa on Fridays, but not before we've gone out for a proper dinner to wrap up our week and spend some quality time together. I look forward to it every week and sometimes, knowing it's coming really helps me through a rough week.

Keith had a lot to wrap up at the office that Friday, so we decided to meet at Maggiano's rather than meet at the house first like we usually do. It gets pretty busy in there on Fridays so Keith was going to go ahead and get a table once he finished at work since his office was closest to the restaurant. I made a quick stop by the house on my way because I had forgotten to set the TiVo for Psych. We like to watch that during our Friday Sofa Time, and the new season was starting. If I hurried, I could just make it. I didn't want to be late, but I was willing to risk it to be sure the TiVo was set.

I knew if I was too late, I'd get the Eyebrow from Keith when we caught up with each other at the restaurant. He'd been on my case about timeliness lately, reminding me that if I slipped back into old habits, he would, too. Keith's personal mission in life is to get me to a point that I'm on time out of habit, and not out of consequence avoidance. It's worked pretty well for the most part, but sometimes I do slip. It happens gradually, a bit at a time. Five minutes here, ten minutes there, until I'm running five minutes late all the time, then ten minutes, then… you get the picture. I had been running five minutes late a lot lately, so the warnings had begun. I don't know what happens. I get distracted or something and the next thing I know, I'm late.

So anyway, I dashed into the house and set the TiVo, then took a minute to get a drink of water (read: distraction). I couldn't help it; I was thirsty, and the traffic had been kind, so I thought I still had time. I hurried to the dishwasher for a glass, and groaned when I opened the door. Keith had forgotten to start it. As I looked closer at the soap holder, I saw that he hadn't even filled it with detergent.

No wonder; I checked under the sink and found we were out of dishwasher soap. The dishwasher was chock full of dirty dishes so I thought I'd do a good thing by shooting a squirt of liquid soap – just a little! - in there. At least they'd be clean. That was my plan, if you can call it a plan. Not that I thought about it long enough to call it a plan – I didn't have time. After setting the TiVo, getting the dishwasher going, and getting a drink, I was going to be – you guessed it – five minutes late. I didn't have time for fancy plans. The only real second thought I entertained was whether or not to leave the house with the dishwasher running, and I hastily dismissed said thought.

And that's where I made my mistake. You see, that's a sticking point for Keith. He had a washer flood his apartment about 400 years or so ago while he was in college. Even though it was several centuries ago, he never forgot it, so he's always preaching not to leave the house with any major appliance running that isn't supposed to be. I've heard it for ten years, so yes, it did cross my mind. But with only one flooding incident in Keith's life over however many years, and none in mine, I always maintained the risk was not anywhere near what Keith made it out to be. We never saw eye-to-eye on the subject.

So, while it did cross my mind, I promptly crossed it out. No big deal. The dishwasher ran all the time without incident. Of course, that was with real dishwasher detergent. A minor detail.

As the bubbles lapped at my toes, I reflected over the events of the night, and realized I had lined things up nicely for a series of events that all lent a hand in leading me toward getting consequenced. First, I ended up being not five minutes late, but ten. Got the Eyebrow and a bit of a lecture, as expected. Then I started the dishwasher so it could run while I was out, knowing it was a pet peeve of Keith's, then flooded the kitchen so he'd know I had done it. Who would guess lightning could strike twice and he'd have two major appliance floods in his lifetime? What are the odds? I know one thing: I'm not standing close to him in a storm, I'll tell you that.

The icing on the cake was definitely the flood and the bubble mess. And a fine mess it was.

"Ok, that's about as good as it's going to get." Keith switched off the shop vac I was using, and pulled the plug. "I'm not sure what we do about inside the dishwasher. We might need to just run it again and keep an eye on it."

I nodded. "Sounds like a plan."

"Tomorrow," he said with a nod toward the living room. "Tonight, we have things to talk about. Let's sit down."

Might as well. I wouldn't be doing much of that later, I was sure of it.

We sat on the sofa and he smiled at me. It was disarming how he did that. He could be close to furious and still pull off a smile. It was sort of sarcastic, though, if you know what I mean.

"So," he said lightly, as though we were going to chat about old times. "Thought you'd do some dishes, did you, Murph?"

"Keith, the dishwasher was full, they needed doing. I didn't think I put that much detergent in there." I kept my eyes focused across the room rather than on him.

"What do you think now?"

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. I did shift a bit, and look toward the kitchen. Some might say I squirmed, and maybe I did, but it's not easy to sit stoically when you're having one of Those conversations with your partner.

"Why didn't you just wait until tomorrow when we could get more detergent? It's not like we were out of dishes," he pointed out.

"I didn't put that much thought into it," I admitted lamely. "I was just thinking about… getting the dishes washed."

"Your intentions were good, but…"

"But not good enough to make up for it," I finished dourly. "I thought I was doing a good thing."

It was true.

"Is that what you thought about leaving with the dishwasher running?"

And there it was; the heart of the matter. The tell-tale heart, beating loudly and conspicuously, announcing my guilt to all the world. The fleeting thought about whether or not to leave the dishwasher running should have never crossed my mind; there should have been no option, no question. I shouldn't have started it, knowing how Keith felt, even if I disagreed. I've given him hell for being over-cautious about leaving stuff running for as long as we've been together. It drives me crazy. I've always thought it was ridiculous and I've never kept that tidbit to myself. Regardless of whether I agreed or not, leaving with the dishwasher running was like a challenge to his authority, whether I meant for it to be or not. It was so easy to see it after the bubbles cleared things up for me. Hindsight and all that.

"I didn't expect it to do this," I told him. "I really didn't think it would overflow."

"No, based on past conversations, I'm positive you didn't." His smile had disappeared not long after we started this talk, and his gloom and doom expression was a lot more bothersome. "But one thing I am sure of is that you knew what I would think about you leaving it running. We've talked about it many times."

Yes, we had, and that sorely complicated things. I doubted seriously that Keith would have consequenced me just for the bubbles thing, really. It was an accident and I honestly didn't think I had put in that much soap. But couple that with the fact that I started the dishwasher knowing I was on my way out the door tanked any case I might have had. I knew exactly where this was going. My gut was doing the twist - it knew where this was going, too.

"I've never really thought we'd have a problem," I reminded him, despite the events of the night.

"I know because you've told me that every time it's come up. I hate to say I told you so, but," Keith said.

"You're going to say it anyway, though."

"I did tell you so," he said seriously. "Many times."

He scooted to the edge of the sofa and tugged at my wrist to get me to stand. That's the one bad thing about being together so long. Our serious talks are fairly short because we both pretty well know where we're going without it having to be said. We not only know where, we know why. Just like in this case. I knew before we ever hit the living room what he was going to do. I mean, I hoped he wouldn't - I always hope that - but I knew.

"Keith, come on," I said even as I stood. "You win the running appliance argument. I won't leave anything running again. Your point was proven tonight."

"I shouldn't have to prove myself for you to do what I tell you. You've known for ten years how I feel about leaving things running and why."

What could I say to that? If it hadn't been such a hot topic of discussion so many times over the last ten years, I might have been able to feign ignorance, but we had spatted over it plenty. Bottom line, he was right. The truth was in the bubbles.

He nodded toward my waistline. "Get them down."

Get them down I did, slowly but surely. Each bit of clothing I peeled away took a layer of myself with it, leaving me open and exposed, both emotionally and physically; mere putty in my partner's hands. First the belt, then the slacks, and finally the worst part, the briefs. I hurried across his lap, wanting it over and done with. I wondered if I would ever get to a point that I wouldn't need the occasional trip across his knees. Would I still be getting spanked when I was fifty? One thing was for sure, if I was, it wasn't going to be for leaving anything running again.

I clenched my teeth in an old grin and bear it routine of sorts while Keith made quick work of wearing out my ass. He cracked his hand down until I couldn't hold still anymore and finally, the tears came in a rush whether I wanted them to or not. This wasn't so much a "guilty" spanking, it was an "I told you so" spanking, and sometimes those take longer to get through to me. I don't know if that makes any sense at all, but it wasn't like I had been beating myself up all day over something I had done. But Keith kept going until he got my attention, God love him.

He had ultimately won the argument of whether or not major appliances could be trusted alone without a babysitter, hands down. The dishwasher made his point for him and then he reinforced it, hands down. We would never again argue over that one, I was quite sure.

He forgave me, of course. Bubbles all but forgotten, we still managed to curl up together on the same sofa where I met my Waterloo, only this time it was to watch the new episode of Psych.

"You know," Keith said with a grip on my hand, "you might blame this show for everything that happened tonight. If you hadn't stopped by to set the TiVo, the rest wouldn't have happened."

My butt was still thumping from Keith's earlier attention to it. "I hope it's worth it," I bemoaned my condition.

"We'll enjoy it." He brought my hand to his lips and kissed the back of it. "Then maybe later we can have a bubble bath together."

The smile was back but this time it was genuine, and touched his eyes.

"No, thanks," I said. "I've had enough of bubbles for one night."

And I had. I decided Hasbro was right: there was definitely trouble in the bubbles.

End