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pat of Crest and your brother’s oldretainer—yours, unfortunately, havingbeen mangled by house pets.

The times … they are a-changin’!These days, no self-respecting house,either a new model in Duluth or a reno-vated Ansley townhouse, is completewithout the Diva Bath. Drumroll, please!

What ever did we do without delugeshowerheads—and two per bath at that! Ifour mothers thought a “whirlpool” was 14tiny legs churning with Mr. Bubble, thentoday’s streaming, pulsing, massaging watermust seem like a visit to Old Faithful.

No woman worth her Tory Burch’s iscontent with anything less than a DivaBath. The DB is a sanctuary, a lair, a placeof atonement for all the sins visitedagainst us by an unforgiving world, a

world where we must work. So, at a minimum, we need subway tile—all the better if we can add marble, onyx, mosaicand iridescent flourishes.

As for faucets, they must be matte sil-ver or rhodium if we are feeling oh-so-modern and groovy or agate or onyxor lapis lazuli with basins to match if weare feeling downright glamorous. Fromslender onyx columns straight out of theDelano hotel or yards of marble withfive-figure, gold-plated basins that gleamlike soft gems, no expense is spared increating our bathroom.

We are determined to get that shiatsumassage that a 60-hour workweek anddemanding offspring continually deny us.We want to be pelted from every angle(that water destroys cellulite and, hey, it’sa workout that can rival Pilates) and allthis while we sit on the deftly placed marble ledge.

Yes, our showers last that long: Blessthat steady 747-velocity of water thatturns our entire bodies into one giantpucker. Just try and wrest us out of here—fat chance, what with the $400 gold-plated deadbolts.

No, in Diva Baths there are settees forlounging, fur throws for our pedicuredfeet, and terry poufs to assist us in the artof make-up application. Stacks of drawersawait our precious cosmetics. Deco mir-rored trays hold our perfumes. Lucitecontainers hold perfect Q-tips, cottonballs and sable brushes. Mercury glassvases hold fresh calla lilies. Towels sothick that just a glancing blow dries headto foot. But these aren’t towels—they areacreage of velvety cotton. Candles andsea salts, books and magazines aboundnow that we have the Diva Bath with its900 square feet of Nirvana.

We ain’t leavin’! ‘Cause we have aplasma TV in here and we can darn wellwatch George Clooney and dream.

one are the days when ourmothers made do with one bathper five children and our dad-

dies showered outdoors with a gardenhose and some old dog shampoo after aday of fishing. Bathrooms were some-thing to be cleaned by misbehaving teenswith a can of Comet in one hand and apoor report card in the other.

The bath of yesteryear was strictlyutilitarian. Masses of kids huddledbeneath a trickling stream of alternatelyscalding and glacial water. The amenitieswere nanny’s cast-off beach towels withsome aunt’s monogram (all the better ifshe shared the same last name) and acces-sories culled from the children’s craftclass. Toothbrushes were seldomreplaced, and dental hygiene involved a

Marcia Sherrill

Bath RxMarcia’s prescription for bath bliss

Photographed by Steve Pomberg

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