It's Raining Men

There are at least half a dozen men in my yard. Making a lot of noise.

There are two men in my bathroom, making a huge mess and a lot of noise.

Then there are the Jehovah Witnesses at the door asking one of the workmen: "Do you live here? Does anybody live here?"

Really?

The place is jumping worse than a frog on a hot stove, and they want to know if anyone lives here?

I haven't even mentioned Husband, who, if you reread my blog from yesterday, has walked into the tree for the seventh time.

Or our dog, Bonnie, who suddenly decided she had to sit on my feet and growl at every man who walks by (that's a lot of growling) because she has to protect me.

And cats - Husband was sure Eli had escaped outside. I knew he would not, he's never been out except in a crate, and he's not likely to bolt. All I had to do was whistle - you know, put your lips together - eh, never mind.

There's wash in the washer and dryer, but I can't get to it because of giant boxes.

I was going to stir up a pone of cornbread, but Husband failed to buy buttermilk, and it just ain't as good with sweet milk.

Mother is calling every five minutes to tell me the order in which things should be done in town, because I ain't old enough to figger it out.

Oh, did I mention all the power steering abilities of our car disappeared on the way to church Sunday? They sure did. The garage has called and the car is ready to pick  up, power steering reinstated.

Ain't no where to park it, though. Not with trucks and vans all over creation.

We should be able to park it in the garage, which was why the garage was built, but we can't. Refer to the word Husband.

Ah, well. When they are all finished the yard will be nicer, the bathroom will be better, and all will be quiet again.

Tell me this is so, please.