Pardon my hiatus, I'm trying to make a living and it's about to kill me. And all of my brain cells. Anyway, let's get straight to the story.
I'm having a bridal shower tomorrow and, in anticipation, I've been at home with Granny and Papa, bugging the snot out of her. Ok Polly is here, too, but she doesn't count. I'll tell you about Polly later.
At approximately 8 o'clock p.m. I realized that I had yet to mail my wedding invitations. Also, I had three Redbox movies in my purse that I would soon own if I didn't get up and return them. After a bit of guilt tripping and nagging, Granny agreed to ride into town with me to run my errands.
*A piece of advice- don't try to mail 219 wedding invitations through the regular letter slot. You will have to do them three at a time and it is quite time consuming. People will line up behind you, juding your holey brown pajama pants and mustard flats. At least, that's what I hear. Sometimes that happens. To some people. Not me, though. No sir, not this girl.
Once I completed the arduous task of cramming the invites into the already full mailbox- you're welcome USPS- we scooted over to the Redbox where approximately 5 well dressed persons were waiting to return movies. I was in pajamas and my Cole Haan flats. Fancy shoes and lounge pants, how attractive. Naturally, I wasn't carrying my purse. (I was being judged, for sure. With no fancy purse to validate my slack appearance.)
I suffered through the return process. The natural progression of events, of course, was to go to Chicfila and get ice dream cones to reward ourselves for our hard work. The cones were huge and they were delicious. Good thing I'm not getting married in six weeks or I'd not be eating ice cream.
Oh, wait. Sigh.
We inhaled our ice cream cones and headed back home to check on Papa and Polly. I was itching to see What Not to Wear and I'm sure that Granny was wanting to see a Nancy Grace re-run.
The second we stepped through the door, I heard Papa yelling from the bathroom. "Hazel! Come here!"
I hear muttering and Granny emerges and stomps angrily my way. She was not amused.
"What's wrong with him?" I asked.
"I've got to call Keith and tell him to turn off the chicken water. Papa can't take a shower."
Uh. Excuse me? Chicken water? What?
I'm sure I've mentioned our fabulous collection of chickens and whatnot that live in the woods in a chicken community that is, really, the avian equivalent of a gypsy ghetto. Or maybe a slum.
The explanation is really quiet simple. My uncle had left the water on to fill the water dishes for his 300 million chickens, so when my grandpa went to shower, he had no water pressure.
Does this story make sense? Nope.
Does this story make sense in the context of my life? Yep.
The moral of the story: next time your water pressure is a little puny, go make sure the chicken water is turned off- lest you burn up the water pump.
That is all. Goodnight.
