I am not, not, NOT having a good day.
It's after eleven and Mr. Moon is nowhere to be found. He left the house at seven to go sight his gun. In the woods. Where there are bears. And guns.
I'm sure he's fine. He's always fine.
But it's gray and the sky is so heavy with unborn rain and it's getting cooler every second and it's going to be damn cold by tomorrow and well, where is my husband?
Yes. I called his cell phone. Straight to voice mail.
Okay. I just called him again. He's fine. He's fine. My husband is fine. He's still sighting his gun. "Only a few more clicks."
What's a click?
This is what I say is my Number One Rule:
Do not worry the mama!
And I fucking mean it, too. The rule applies to children and husbands.
And they should fucking know that by now.
Ah-yah. It's just one of those days.
You can't imagine how gravid the sky is. I can feel the reptile chill of it pressing down on everything. Fuck winter. I don't understand how some people can live where the sun doesn't shine for days at a time. I would go mad in six weeks. Maybe less. Maybe two weeks.
I would have to live in movie theaters and bars- places where it's supposed to be dark. I would be drunk on booze and bloated on popcorn all the time. I would stumble home and cook Swanson TV dinners and pass out in bed while they were still in the oven, the fried chicken and pasty mashed potatoes becoming cinders while I slept, the peas little black cannonballs and when they all burst into flames and my house caught fire, I would dream that the sun was finally shining, that light and warmth were returning.
And that's me today, even though I am wearing an incredibly soft T-shirt of the most divine shade of periwinkle blue that I bought yesterday at Old Navy. I shouldn't have. I always think that the clothes at Old Navy were made by four-year old orphans in Viet Nam who have had their feet cut off in order to prevent them from running away and who make two cents an hour. How else can they be this cheap?
I bought a green one too.
Mr. Moon is leaving town tomorrow for a week to go to a high school reunion in Nashville and then to go hunting with an old friend up there. I am not going, of course. I have been to two of his high school reunions. Maybe three. There is much drinking and merriment and the women look and sound like Reba McEntire and everyone still loves Mr. Moon who was a celebrity then and is a celebrity now at his old high school. And of course, I do not go hunting. Where would he stash me while he was in the woods?
No. He needs to go be manly and do manly things and if those Reba Wannabees stand a chance with him, I need to not be there.
Plus, I have a grandson to take care of so that my daughter and her husband can go to work and pay the mortgage and not be homeless.
The cat could probably fend for herself.
And it's going to be really, really cold there. Colder than it's going to be here and that is colder than I want to deal with.
So it's that sort of day.
I can't wait until bedtime when it's supposed to be dark and cold.
Only about twelve more hours.
I guess I'll wash the sheets so everything will be ready.
But I do like my T-shirt. It's really, really blue.
Thank-you, orphans. I mean it.
And I'm sorry about your feet.