The weather in South Georgia swooshes by like a NASCAR driver having to pee. Is that dark cloud a menace or simply waving a quick hello before it drifts on its way? On a call about writing, Joey spoke of the uniqueness of Kansas’ weather and an anomaly that recently occurred known as a “breakout storm.” Think tornado, but with high wind breaking through the clouds and slamming toward the ground at 70 mph.
I wish I’d become a meteorologist. Or an interior designer. Not a fancy, white pantsuit designer with their hair slicked back in a pink claw-toothed banana clip, but your ordinary, no-nonsense kind. I’d likely be barefoot. But what about broken glass? If shards were on prospective clients’ floors, I’d hook them up with my cleaner on speed dial.
Speaking of cleaners, 6 to 8 were at the house today. Using the tips of their fingers with soft cloths, they took to the corners of the windows, swept the drywall dust, and mopped. The once sawdust-filled bathtub is pristine white, and the black granite countertop glistens. Dave and I popped in to determine the placement of shelves and rods in our closet. We did, and in less than a few hours, after running to Home Depot to return doorknobs, they were almost done.
With experienced and motivated builders, things move fast! What isn’t known is whether the motivation is due to drug use; the intensity of one of the guys’ eyes and his lack of emotion make me suspicious.
In the past two-plus years of blogging, have I ever discussed politics or religion here? I’m genuinely curious, and ninety-eight percent sure I haven’t. I wonder what that’s like for the reader; are they fond of my lack of a soapbox in these areas, or are they not? I’m not doing it for you as much as I am for me; I see certain subjects as private and do not engage in them.
Moving from Washington State to Georgia, I’ve experienced a higher intensity of fear in the political sphere of the people. I even said so to the countertop installer lady, Piri, when she told me I needed a gun because there was going to be a civil war. I told her I’d never get a gun for that reason, and if it came to someone kicking in my door to eat my vegetables (her made-up scenario), I didn’t want to be alive anyway. I don’t think she knew what to make of me.
Actually, I do. The next time she makes Hungarian food (she’s Romanian), she’ll invite us over and teach me her ways.
Despite the challenges and surprises of our new life, I’m embracing each moment with humor, curiosity, and a growing sense of belonging. Thanks for being here!
Love, Jaclynn
Going On 40 