Waterthon

We’re finally – mostly – operable. We have water, including hot water – and we’re leak-free. There are floors, sort of. It’s still unfinished subfloor in the bathroom but no need to worry about falling through. (Spousal unit will lay the tile again. Eventually.)

The only thing left to fix is the water main valve. While we’re not responsible for fixing it, repair means another bout without water. Specifically tomorrow. Our neighbors will be SOL for a while, too. Turns out not only was the valve shot, but a good portion of the water main itself to our place has gone south and needs replacing.

Despite our restricted-area water shortage, I managed to cook actual food yesterday. THIS is when my handy-dandy crockpot was indispensable. I put on a roast and veggies at o’dark thirty and got it going before the insanity of the day started, and we finally had a hot, home-cooked meal for dinner. It didn’t matter how many times the water was off and on. It didn’t matter the place was torn asunder. It didn’t matter how busy it was at work. We had foooooooood and it was ready when I got done working. No additional cooking required on my part. It was super simple, hardly the best stuff I’d ever made – and after a few days of fast food, it still tasted like ambrosia.

The water was on all day today, and tonight was open-face beef sammies, made with leftovers. Tomorrow is my “Friday”, thank goodness – and push comes to shove, we have an Olive Garden gift card we can put to work. I’m more thinking about spaghetti and meatballs at home, though. Fancy, no. Easy and yummy – hell yeah.

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I did start writing another book – this one what I’d consider flash-fiction. My intent: short and funny. It’s a zombie story, and I don’t write zombie stories. In this one, my zombie is the hero. Before it’s over, he might even wear a cape. Or possibly a chocolate pie. I haven’t decided yet.

Excerpt, unedited:

It used to be, when you died, you died. Now, I’m not at all sure when it happened, but I sure ‘nuff died, and pretty durned sure it was back around 1920. Mighta been 1917 or 1918.

A hundred or so years later, my memory ain’t what it outta be.

But that’s just because I’m an old fart, not because of the ghost. The ghost tried to get to my memories too, but I guess it only works on the ones that’s still alive. It obviously ain’t got nothing to do with having a body, coz I still got arms and legs and stuff. They’re a bit worse for the wear, mind you, but other than a coupla fingers on one hand, and four toes, my skin’s still mostly stuck to my bones.

Afore I forget, my name’s Paul. Paul Grimes, if you’re wantin’ the whole story. I ain’t nobody fancy. When I was alive, the folks in town called me Paul Grimey, coz I was a miner and it was dirty work. Only baths I took was in the rain. I figger Mother Nature knew what she was doin’. All that dirt mighta not been purdy, but it kept me from gettin’ sunburnt when the summer rolled around. So if my body’s a little on the overripe side now, ain’t no big deal.

See what I mean? I might not remember it all, but I remember plenty. Not like them poor sods the ghost got to.