The Goldens didn't pay their gas bill on time. Talk about nasty surprises.
We discovered this bad bit of business last night when Chloe tried to make some pasta on the uncooperative stovetop. Tick tick tick, IGNITE! go out.
So perhaps it's no surprise at all. It would help if we'd gotten some sort of disconnect notice, though.
As it was, we each had all night to consider the back to nature joys of a cold shower. I believe Joan Crawford was a fan of the cold shower. Better for the skin and all that....
Not that I want to use Joan Crawford for a role model or anything. I mean, there was that questionable business with the wire hangers and she was a fan of Pepsi, not Coke. Here in Georgia, Co'Cola is the state drink (with or without the moonshine chaser).
Because perspective is of the utmost importance, I shall think about how this little speck of trouble fits into the broad scheme of human experience. This is when I roll out the Pioneer Living Scale with 1 being "I'm not whining about a minor inconvenience, I'm simply noting that I've noticed the difference between now and then" to 10 being "At least we don't have to dig a hole in the meadow where we can bury our dead." So this is what? A 1? Maybe a 2? Nah, a 1. It's a cold shower, for heaven's sake, not an amputation or the roof of the lean-to caving in during a blizzard in June.
It could be worse, of course. It could always be worse. My soap is not made of lye and fat butchered from my favorite cow and, what's more, when I've toweled off and turned back to pink from blue, I'll just stroll right back into my well-appointed home office and be grateful that
How was your shower today?