Okay, I’m finally home for awhile. And I’ve never been happier to be back in Wisconsin. I really don’t want to do any driving for a long time. Not even to the store for toilet paper. I’m going to learn to weave my own from dandelion leaves, of which there are a multitude in my yard. I’m not even going to get in the car if the end of the trip holds a promise of Culver’s ice cream, because not only would this necessitate me getting into the car again but Hel-LO, it’s “Show me your back fat” season, people! I refuse to even get in the car should a trip to the emergency room be in order due to a tumble down the stairs; I’m taking that broken ankle and hobbling my crippled ass all the way to triage the old-fashioned, bipedal way. At this semi-random point I must thank my excellent hostess in Boulder, Michelle, who put up with me for a third night after my original flight home was cancelled. And thank you to Aunt Sue, who threw one hell of a shindig in Minnesota this past weekend.
Anyway, I hope you all had a great “Loud Sounds of Money Being Burned” I mean Fourth of July holiday. Don’t mind me. I’m just crotchety because several of my neighbors enjoy celebrating our nation’s independence from Great Britain by detonating bottle rockets, firecrackers, and what could very well be a land mine at regular intervals late at night. And all day. Boy, it’s a good thing my dog loves loud, startling noises! They calm her nerves and put her right to sleep. It’s like a doggy sedative!
Next week will be interesting. We’re having our driveway excavated and I need to really get cracking on the revisions, so I’ll learn if I have the ability to concentrate despite loud machinery crashing around in the background. My money’s on “No.”
(this statement in parentheses serves as a segue.)
Here’s a recent highlight from one of the last few days in the car. J and I were following his parents home from Minnesota on Sunday; they planned to drop by the home of their former pastor and his wife, since we were in the neighborhood and all. Gracious hosts that they are, they fed us lunch and good conversation during our brief visit. Unfortunately, I was feeling quite spacey from the heat and endless, endless days of driving I had just logged. Plus, I was constantly trying to account for the whereabouts of Daisy, who has a tendency to furtively shit in people’s bedrooms if you’re not watching her. Especially if the carpet is new or white. So I wasn’t paying attention when Pastor John turned to me at one point during the meal and asked, “So Jessie, are you limber?”
He asked it rather quickly, in between a conversation with J’s parents about their former church. I froze. What had he said? Limburger? Lunder? Linver? Is this some kind of Lutheran sect or denomination? I looked helplessly at J and his parents across the table. They stared back at me. Time stretched out, and somewhere I could hear a clock ticking and children aging. Just as I began to form the words, “No, I was raised Catholic,” Pastor John added, “Flexible. Can you touch your toes?”
I barked a laugh. “Ho no! I most certainly can’t.” Apparently he was telling some story about a very bendy girl that once worked at the church and could have joined the Cirque de Soleil if she wanted. She was that talented.
So that’s what can happen when you’re not paying attention.
I’ll post more pictures from the trip later this week. In the meantime, I’ll be working on improving the novel and fuming over my new neighbors across the street, whose radioactively giant dog has crapped (hugely) in our yard three times since they moved in a few weeks ago and whose cat has murdered two baby bunnies under our porch. I can hear the man of the house shouting for the dog now, which is probably blocks away crapping on someone else’s lawn as I write this.