Sunday’s the big day when we turn our shivering backs on the north and gladly opt for two 12-hour days in the car.
So of course, it was only logical that in the middle of fixing one of our last dinners here I would turn on the faucet and be rewarded with nothing but a feeble drip of water. No hot water. No cold water. No water.
We clomped downstairs to stare at the water tank – about all we could do since we have a well in the front yard and the water pump is installed underground in that well. The tank was empty.
Immediately a series of images flew into our heads. First, unflushable toilets. Second, large back hoes attempting to dig through frozen ground. Third, our departure date receding into the distance.
Fortunately, our furnace (25 degrees at night here) kept going in spite of being a forced hot water system – apparently it re-circulates, and even better, the repairman came out first thing the next morning. Turns out it was a blown fuse, something My Guy had already diagnosed but we still needed to ensure the pump was sending out the signals it was supposed to.
It was about then that I remembered the GIANT comforter I’d stuffed with both hands into the washer and then stuffed again into the dryer that day. Things had smelled a little toastier than usual when I’d pulled it, still damp, from the dryer. And then the heat in the dryer hadn’t worked after that. . . . Hmmmm.
Yesterday, My Guy took the cable boxes back to the company and afterwards I began to get a little twitchy, in spite of being someone who generally only watches TV in the evening. That, plus rattling around here with a very limited number of things that needed doing before we leave and the day was really dragging.
Solution – out to see the latest Star Wars movie, Rogue One, which I enjoyed well enough but probably not as much as my husband who is still basically 12 ½. Later, back at home we followed that up with binge-watching the series Alpha House (thank you Amazon Prime), which was terrific.
Result – I woke up this morning with the remnants of lastnight’s dream in my head. Its scenario involved an improbable story line in which a pre-weight loss John Goodman is zooming around, wedged into an imperial TIE fighter – bringing us full-circle, I guess, to that gigunda comforter that I’d rammed into the dryer.