Green acres are the place to be!
Farm living is the life for me.
Land spreading out so far and wide
Take Manhattan, just give me that countryside
New York is where I'd rather stay
I get allergic, smelling hay
I just adore the city lights
Darling, I love you, but give me Manhattan's nights
LISA: You are my wife--
Olive: Goodbye, city life!
Together: Green acres, we are there!
Olive was not especially happy about several aspects of the bathroom experience this morning, but she was also trying not to disturb Lisa after her late night last night. To wit, already on their second day in the farmhouse: 1) the water had been hot out of the faucet for approximately two minutes only, which wasn't going to be sufficient for any purpose; 2) the door to the bathroom closet was off its track and wouldn't shut; 3) the sink faucet resisted being properly shut off and dripped loudly if you didn't get it tight; and 4) the toilet was now out and out broken--opening the tank and reaching in was the only way it would flush.
"Good morning, Sunshine," Lisa greeted her, stretching and yawning and humming ("Here Comes the Sun") as she walked into the bathroom in only her daisy print short pj's.
"I don't know whether you mean it's a morning to be good on, or--" Olive began grumpily.
"Olive, you aren't sunshiny at all this morning. That's not what I married you for." She sat down to use the toilet. "I think I am going to miss having nice clean nails, though, if yesterday is anything to go by."
Olive winced, eying the bandage on Lisa's finger. "You tore half your nail off yesterday," she reminded her in a pained tone. "By the way, the toilet's not flushing."
"Do we have to call a plumber?" Lisa stood up, wiped, and gently elbowed her wife in the ribs for sink space.
"It's the chain. One of us can probably fix it, if we can find a hardware store. What should we have for breakfast?"
"There's always hotcakes," Lisa said teasingly, as she applied some sort of sunscreen/foundation lotion she habitually wore (but which Olive had never quite understood the nature of). The hotcakes were a running joke but quite real; some online vendor had sent them a whole box, the size of a small chair, full of pancake mix, when they actually ordered a single bag of a different variety of the pancake mix and paid accordingly. It had been difficult to store in New York, given the size of the apartment, but even when they made the vendor understand what had happened, they just wouldn't accept a return.
"Aren't you getting tired of hotcakes? We could make waffles."
"Yes, but the waffle iron is still packed up."
"Eeech," Olive made an annoyed noise. "Fine, whatever."
"Did you hear that?" Lisa asked, tilting her head towards the bathroom door.
"Did I hear what?"
"Someone's at our door, dear" Lisa informed her, pointedly eying Olive's half-buttoned blouse and pants in contrast with her own PJs.
"But my hair--"
"It won't hurt you to look disheveled for once, dear, and I can't go to the door in my pyjamas."
It was Mr. Haney at the door.