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“Aaaaaaaaaah!” A scream tore from my chest as I leaped away from the frigid stream gushing out of the old showerhead.
Normally I loved starting my mornings with a slow and steamy rinse while I let all of my thoughts boing around my brain and eventually meld themselves into some kind of plan for the day. Ever since moving to Beech Grove a couple weeks back, however, I was lucky to get a good five minutes of warmth before the water heater suddenly gave up the ghost and a punishing spray of liquid ice ruined my good mood.
“That’s it!” I shouted as I twisted the faucet off. My landlady would be hearing from me today, whether she liked it or not.
For her part, old Mrs. Haberdash had given me very careful instructions when I signed up to rent the small guest home at the back edge of her hilltop property. Even though she lived in the main house, just a short walk away, I was never ever supposed to visit her there. Anything I needed could be explained via a phone call or better yet—at least according to her—an old-fashioned letter.
Yeah, no.
I tried to do it her way, but so far my attempts at getting help with the plumbing had gone unanswered, and unfortunately, a useless shower made for a useless me. I’d tried playing by her rules and still had nothing to show for it. Now it was a time to play by mine.
Still dripping, I bunched my soapy hair into a bun to get it off my shoulders, threw on a shift dress and flip-flops, and headed out to finally confront my apathetic landlady.
I guess now would be a good time to introduce myself.
The name’s Tawny, Tawny Bigford. Tawny is short for Tanya, a name I’ve hated ever since Tanya Mills stuck a chewed-up wad of bubble gum in my hair during our second grade spelling test. So now I’m Tawny.
I’m 35, love my showers—as you already know—and am wonderfully, happily, unapologetically single.
Sure, I had a husband once. George was his name. But several years into our marriage, he decided he made a much better pair with some PTA mom named Patricia.
A PTA mom!
As the story goes, they’d bumped into each other outside of the local middle school one afternoon, and it was love at first sight. Why George was there in the first place, I’ll never understand. It’s not like we had kids of our own or any other reason for him to find himself at exactly the wrong place and wrong time.
But it happened and changed all of our lives in the process.
Honestly, I’d have rather he slipped off with his younger, prettier secretary. At least then I could bemoan the cliche.
But he and Patricia, who is two years his senior, are disgustingly happy together. Most days I just pretend that neither of them exists.
Okay, so I may sound a little bitter. And I may live by myself in a rented guest house, but—disappointing showers not withstanding—I absolutely love my life. Basically I write two books per year, ship them off to my publisher for a paycheck, and then do whatever I want with the rest of my time.
Yes, I could write more to make more, but why? I’m perfectly happy to live frugally because that means living freely. And as such, I have more hobbies than any one person should probably ever have.
But I digress…
This wasn’t the time to discuss my hobbies, it was the time to confront Mrs. Haberdash and to demand a steady supply of hot wa
The name’s Tawny, Tawny Bigford. Tawny is short for Tanya, a name I’ve hated ever since Tanya Mills stuck a chewed-up wad of bubble gum in my hair during our second grade spelling test. So now I’m Tawny.
I’m 35, love my showers—as you already know—and am wonderfully, happily, unapologetically single.
Sure, I had a husband once. George was his name. But several years into our marriage, he decided he made a much better pair with some PTA mom named Patricia.
A PTA mom!
As the story goes, they’d bumped into each other outside of the local middle school one afternoon, and it was love at first sight. Why George was there in the first place, I’ll never understand. It’s not like we had kids of our own or any other reason for him to find himself at exactly the wrong place and wrong time.
But it happened and changed all of our lives in the process.
Honestly, I’d have rather he slipped off with his younger, prettier secretary. At least then I could bemoan the cliche.
But he and Patricia, who is two years his senior, are disgustingly happy together. Most days I just pretend that neither of them exists.
Okay, so I may sound a little bitter. And I may live by myself in a rented guest house, but—disappointing showers not withstanding—I absolutely love my life. Basically I write two books per year, ship them off to my publisher for a paycheck, and then do whatever I want with the rest of my time.
Yes, I could write more to make more, but why? I’m perfectly happy to live frugally because that means living freely. And as such, I have more hobbies than any one person should probably ever have.
But I digress…
This wasn’t the time to discuss my hobbies, it was the time to confront Mrs. Haberdash and to demand a steady supply of hot wa
The name’s Tawny, Tawny Bigford. Tawny is short for Tanya, a name I’ve hated ever since Tanya Mills stuck a chewed-up wad of bubble gum in my hair during our second grade spelling test. So now I’m Tawny.
I’m 35, love my showers—as you already know—and am wonderfully, happily, unapologetically single.
Sure, I had a husband once. George was his name. But several years into our marriage, he decided he made a much better pair with some PTA mom named Patricia.
A PTA mom!
As the story goes, they’d bumped into each other outside of the local middle school one afternoon, and it was love at first sight. Why George was there in the first place, I’ll never understand. It’s not like we had kids of our own or any other reason for him to find himself at exactly the wrong place and wrong time.
But it happened and changed all of our lives in the process.
Honestly, I’d have rather he slipped off with his younger, prettier secretary. At least then I could bemoan the cliche.
But he and Patricia, who is two years his senior, are disgustingly happy together. Most days I just pretend that neither of them exists.
Okay, so I may sound a little bitter. And I may live by myself in a rented guest house, but—disappointing showers not withstanding—I absolutely love my life. Basically I write two books per year, ship them off to my publisher for a paycheck, and then do whatever I want with the rest of my time.
Yes, I could write more to make more, but why? I’m perfectly happy to live frugally because that means living freely. And as such, I have more hobbies than any one person should probably ever have.
But I digress…
This wasn’t the time to discuss my hobbies, it was the time to confront Mrs. Haberdash and to demand a steady supply of hot wa
ter that lasted more than five minutes per day. It was, after all, a simple and basic necessity.
On her doorstep now, I sucked in a deep breath to calm my rage, raised my hand, and knocked gently.
Just kidding, I pounded on that door with every bit of ire I had in me.
When no one answered, I started to shout. “I know you’re in there! And I need to talk!”
Still nothing, so I tried the doorknob and was surprised to find it unlocked, given how much I knew the woman valued her privacy.
I pushed it open and charged in, ready to give old Mrs. Haberdash a piece of my mind...
