Well, if you're traveling from Tallahassee to anywhere on I-10, don't speed. The radar plane is buzzing like an annoying insect and I'm sure the troopers are lined up with ticket pads at the ready. Gotta make that hay while the sun shines.
I'm blue today. Just...Sunday. My kitchen is torn up and I know it'll all go back together soon but for right now, it's a mess. Putting in a dishwasher involves electricity and plumbing and my husband having to crawl under the house which is never fun, the centuries of composted vermin-dung alone are horrific, not to mention whatever might currently be living there. There are old tin cans and who-knows-what, thrown there by occupants, long, long ago.
Right now he's gone to Lowe's because of course there is always something else you need in a project like this.
We're supposed to go to a pig roast at Alligator Point this afternoon but I just don't think I feel like it. I mean, don't get me wrong. I do love the pig in all of its parts and flavors but a party?
I read that Keith Richards fell last night on the catwalk in Indianapolis but got right back up and seemed to be okay. Jesus, man. Be careful! We need you in an upright position!
Maurice did another runner yesterday and never did show up until about three in the morning when she tapped at the window to be let in. I think she's mad at me. I don't know. I don't have the energy to really care but if she's adopted another family, my heart is broken.
Sunday. All the 4th hoopla is dying down, I am home and faced with reality and heat, mortality and catch-up chores. I wouldn't get on the interstate if you paid me.
I better get moving here. Life goes on. Even on a Sunday.
Be okay, Keith. Gold rings on ya.