Sweet Gummi Mary! Well water sure is cold in the morning.
Farmer H took his shower this morning while I was puttering around fixin' to take MY shower. And I'll be ding dang donged if the #1 son didn't arise all bleary-eyed and draggy-tailed at the stroke of 9:15 and decide that in spite of a lengthy shower last night before bed, he had worked up enough grunge overnight to require an immediate morning shower. Any other time he would have slept until noon.
I saw the writing on the bathroom wall. #1 takes 40-minute showers. I RAN into the master bathroom and disrobed faster than a toddler in front of a dinner party hosting Daddy's boss. I got almost five good minutes of hot water. Then I had to rinse. Brrr...the only consolation was that #1 was out of his shower in the St. Louis Blues bathroom by the time I emerged. Heh, heh. Welcome to MY world.
Then the boy sat down at my living room laptop, Shiba, and commenced to fiddling about with a new cord for out internet connection. It's Sprint. All that will work. We're too remote for cable. Not desirous of satellite. So we have a connect card thingy. Except that we have ordered an updated model, and the cord will not work with the old one. Home less than 24 hours, off to the Rams game later, and #1 had already cut me off from my innernets.
At least the steaming warmed me up. It didn't help when Farmer H and #1 ganged up on me about what I don't know about electricity and generators. By the time he's ready to go back to college, I might be wearing a bikini to prevent heat stroke.
2 comments:
Yes, now you're onto something. Threaten the bikini thing. There is no boy-kid alive who wants to see his mother in a bikini. They'll do anything you ask. Just start singing, "It was an itsy-bitsy, teeny-weeny, yellow polka-dot bikini," and spray some chlorine in the air for further ambience. Genius will surrender immediately...
Sioux,
I think you're onto something. Thanks for not recommending that I threaten to take him to France and a topless beach. I suppose you're saving that advice to peddle on the counter of the outlet store at your very own proposed woodchipper factory.
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