I posted a photo the other day on Instagram and realized that I may not have ever shared this story! Here goes:
Labor Day Weekend 1997 (I feel like Sophia Pettrillo). We had a gas leak in my neighborhood that weekend. We smelled a little bit of that rotten egg smell on Saturday, but by Sunday, we knew we had a big problem. Several neighbors called the city and even though they would have preferred to wait, we all knew that if this leak wasn't fixed, it was gonna be bad news. The utility trucks arrived around 5 that evening and when we got back home from church that night, they were still there. All in all, they would up digging five or six 6'x6' holes in the road to find the leak. (As an aside, my parents only live about a mile and a half from the Chattahoochee. If that leak has blown up, there would have been major damage to the river and water system.) All of us were assured that the city would not leave giant holes in the road.
The next morning, my Mom woke me up to tell me she was going to my grandparents. So, I got dressed in a hurry. I grabbed a teal Disney magic music days t-shirt, hunter green and navy Disney shorts, my gold round frame glasses, threw my hair in a ponytail and ran out the door. My mom and I got in the car and left.
This should be the end of the story, but, no.
The following Sunday night, as we were getting ready for church. My mom handed me a letter. It was addressed to "Babygirl" and although my address wasn't right, I thought it was a joke.
That is, until I read the letter.
Apparently, in the 30 seconds it took to walk from the back door of my parents house to my Mom's car, I'd made quite an impression.
What detail I'd seemingly forgotten is that the city, in an effort to save money, didn't want to pay the regular city workers time-and-a-half to patch those holes in the street on a holiday.
So they opted to use free, available labor -- the inmates from the county jail.
That's right, I got a letter from a prisoner.
So, if you're keeping track, my options for a beloved are as follows: a 17 year-old, an Inmate, and guys on the Internet. Lucky me!
(You should know that I wrote this post in Waffle House this am.) Just as I was finishing up, a 2-toothed cook lingered a little too long asking how my food was. So I'm guessing I should add him to the list too.
God help my future gene pool. And somebody help me.
That convent is looking better and better.