Groundhog day, year of the cock. (as if I didn't say "rabbit rabbit" outloud to no one the day before.) Fool inverted. Another morning. I go through the effort of picking out a work appropriate top, but plan to wear my new hoodie all day like a surly teenager. Smear my mascara. As I dress, my husband tells me he didn't sleep, tells about a nightmare he had about his father that woke him in the middle of the night. He tells me he touched the flat of my stomach when I was asleep, did I feel it? He's late, so I take the morning dog chores and he switches me for the evening ones. There's coffee.
I walk the dog with my Canadian geese mug of coffee. Sven goes airborn out the house, jerks the leash and I spill it all over the porch and my blue gloves. Mental note to sweep. Mental note to mop the white wood of the porch. Mental note to paint the porch. Mental note to clean out the beds.
Put the dog to bed and go. I listen to music I liked in high school. Battered-up tan La-Z-Boy recliner parked on the side of Spring Hill road, facing the street like it's waiting on somebody important. Another one of those milk and stone sky mornings, cloudy, with the sun coming up in a fuzzy, hot pink line behind the Blue Ridge to the east. Buzzards. I drive to work in my new hoodie that still smells like secondhand cigarettes from the bar last night. I look at the mountains and think of Charlottesville. I think about a story I told Chris yesterday about that same stretch of mountains, about how Stonewall's men got trapped up against them, and the Yankee's thought they had him caught and burned all the bridges on the Valley side so they couldn't slip away. But they didn't realize the Confederates knew about a gap back there, and Stonewall was stepping on a train in Charlottesville by the time they realized the smoke from the guns was just a diversion, and they'd just burned the only way of pursuit.
Always thinking about fire these days. The lights have taken to flickering routinely. Google: house lights all flickering fire? every light in the house flickering cause? I ask Chris about this, too, and he says it doesn't sound great; am I overloading the lines? Mental note to call an electrician. Mental note to die in a fire. Reminded about a thing I read about the survivor of a serial killer attack who said getting your throat cut doesn't actually hurt, it's just that it looks so dramatic, and maybe a fire death is like that too. The crazy bitch who lived in this house before us once told me that when there was a fire in an adjacent house, the house itself woke her up to warn her.
Big thump sound from one side of my car. I have an appointment for new tires, so I'm paranoid about tire failure, and pretty certain the sound it related to one of my tires popping. Pull off on the Weyer's Cave exit, stop at a gas station to stomp out of my car and stare at my non-popped tire. Must of just hit something on the road, but that doesn't make sense. Didn't see anything on the road. Decide to take 11. My mechanic lives/works on 11, and if I get into trouble, I could just call him. Love my mechanic. He told me a good place to hunt arrowheads and rattlesnake stories from Elliot's Knobb and Elkhorn. A rattlesnake once went off at me at Elkhorn, but it was a shy little serpent and I never even saw it, just the place where the grass parted as it shot off away from me.
11 is horrible. Take 42. Little farms, then little gas stations. Everything kind of pink and Harrisonburg hazy. I get into a really pissy mood for no reason than it's taking an absurd amount of time to get to work, a place I go almost every day. When I finally get to work I realize I'm really no later than I am sometimes from dicking around, and my Team Lead has assured me that if I keep doing the work I'm doing, I can do whatever the hell I want. Listen to Team Lead holding court in the breakroom, discussing the merits of a picture of a dog. Resent Team Leam.
Work. No walk today, catching up. Work late. Write half a scene. Check traffic. Check traffic for Charlottesville.
Decide to take 81 in spite of potential tire-popping climate. Bizarrely turned on like I always am when I drive home from work for some reason. Sky is blue by now, growing dark. See a big paper hornet's nest hanging in a bare tree I never have noticed before. La-z-boy recliner missing on Spring Hill road. Husband taking the dog's evening walk; plan to go straight to the gym. Wear my good hoodie. Wear my run club top my hags made for me for Christmas. I say outloud to my reflection, "Oh, I look cute."
Run. Think about breasts. Think about winter camping email to send out. Think about own story. Think about showering off gross second-hand smoke smell and washing good hoodie. El Vy stuck in my head.
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