I realize this morning that yesterday's stage of illness was like having a tiny, sweet fairy on my shoulder with a southern accent who said things like, "Honey, you're sick now. Rest. It's okay."
And Marcy brought me that delicious soup and friends called and we laughed and joked and I just did whatever I wanted to, a little weeding in the sun, starting a short story, writing a little poem to send to a friend in Africa...you know.
Whatever I wanted. I felt a little achy, my head was stopped up, whatever.
Nah, well. Today instead of the sweet little southern fairy (who was no doubt wearing a blue floursack house dress and it was so charming) I feel like I have a particularly ugly cement gargoyle, come to life, sitting on my shoulder.
"Hahahaha!" he is laughing, a very chunky laugh as if his throat is filled with rocks not smoothed by a river but sharp with points and bumps and he is perched there on my shoulder with talons like a hawk's.
Okay. It's not THAT bad but I can see him, that gargoyle, out of the corner of my left eye. I swear I can. He is not friendly. He is just mean. Also heavy.
I am supposed to go to Waylon's first birthday party today but I don't think that would be a good idea. Do you remember Waylon? He was born last November and I wrote about him here.
Waylon is Owen's BFF. And I love that boy and I love his mama and daddy and his grandmama and his auntie and his great-grandmother and great-grandfather. And they will all be at the party and so will three of my kids and I just don't think I should go because no one needs this gargoyle I have sitting on my shoulder.
Gargoyles just love to make more of themselves and settle in on other people's shoulders so you should do the right thing and not give them the opportunity. Fucking gargoyles. Fucking Viral Gargoyles.
So even though I am Waylon's Aunt Chicken Grandma, I think I will keep my gargoyle to myself. And so it goes.
I have already cleaned up a fairly massive amount of dog shit and pee and started a load of laundry and fed the cats and dogs and checked on the chickens. If I can find the strength I will take the trash down the block to the trash place. Maybe I'll even hang the clothes on the line if I feel like it. I'm grateful that the clock says 9:17 instead of the 10:17 it would have said if the time hadn't changed. That extra hour, given guilt-free by the Powers That Control Time is much appreciated. Maybe I will work on that story. I have two problems with writing short stories:
1. I always think I can write one in about two hours and of course I can't, and
2. They are never very short.
I think those two things are connected. The gargoyle is sticking his long, pointy fingernail in my ear and giving me a sort of viral lobotomy so forgive me if I'm not making a lot of sense.
It is an incredibly beautiful day but I don't feel like taking a picture. I promise you, though, it is.
And I am glad to be here, sick or not, in this old house on this beautiful day and I am thinking about Mr. Moon and wondering how his reunion went and I'll just bet you any damn thing that those women were mighty glad to see him without his wife. Uh-huh. I'll bet they were.
"Oh, Gle-enne," they probably drawled. "How RRRR yew? Where's that little whyfe of yewrs? She's not here?" And then they fluffed their red hair and angled their bodies to give him a better view of their still remarkable chestular areas and batted their eye lashes.
Uh-huh. I just bet you.
I hope he showed them the picture of Owen on his cell phone. I hope he left early so he could be in the woods this morning.
I think I'll go make a fruit smoothie and gird my loins to take the trash.
And then go sit down on the couch and see if there's anything on the TV that I can bear to watch.
Happy Sunday, y'all. The Church of the Batshit Crazy is all about comfort today. Settle in. Don't go near any gargoyles and if you see a sweet tiny southern fairy do not engage her in conversation.