I got all dressed and ready this morning, and started driving down the road to my therapy appointment, my last one, and actually, thank God, noticed all the trash cans at the ends of the driveway.
I thought "Hm. That's interesting. Trash day is on Tuesday. Wait a minute..."
So then I drove around and came home again, because my appointment is for Wednesday.
Keith is getting a bad cold, and coughed all night long, shaking the bed, and creeping up next to me to get warm, so no matter which way I turned, I was squished by a large, sweating, coughing, sickly husband. Poor guy.
He probably got it while staying in the House of Horrors. (And of one cute puppy. She was cute, even if she did pee on the bed. So was the kid, come to think of it. Poor kid.)
Or else he got his cold yesterday, while driving up and down the road in the driving rain, trying to find me, worried out of his head because it turns out that I actually did go jogging in a hurricane. Or at least, under hurricane warning.
How was I suppose to know? The rain had let up, when I started out. It quickly came back, however, and I ended up jogging two miles with sneakers that squelched with every step. I was soaked to the skin and euphoric by the time I got back, to find a ridiculously angry husband standing on the front porch, glaring at me with his arms crossed.
You know what's the best song to jog to? Long Cool Woman, by the Hollies. I'm a sucker for the classic rock.
So. We're looking at a house in Alabama. That's right. Alabama. Pretty much the worst state in the United States. No, wait...let me think...Yeah, no. The worst state possible.
Their license plates read "Sweet Home Alabama" and all I can think is, "You, poor, poor thing."
It's got a big back yard, a two car garage, a pool out under the perpetual pines, and three bedrooms, with not much total square footage. But one of the bedrooms will become an office for me to write in, so I don't care what happens elsewhere, so long as I have a place to retreat to.
The main question is, what is the neighborhood like? We don't know. It's a nice house, brick. But we saw such houses cheek to jowel by trailer parks, so who knows. I want to be able to jog without worrying about being raped by some drunken good ol' boy who finds my jogging skort too much to resist.
I know, I know, I'm ragging on the South a wee bit much. I can't help it; I have to give the horror an outlet. I'm sure I'll grow to love it- the Piggy Wiggly, the suspicious, glances, the Confederate flag, the massive mug bogging trucks, the fifty different varieties of fried pig skins, the idiot freakin' drivers who pass on the right, right in front of a red light, using the right turn only lane.
Oh well. The Army will only keep us there two years before moving us somewhere else, so I'll just think of it as an Interesting Experience.
