It’s evening now, but today was one of those mornings in paradise.
The ancient washing machine that empties into the kitchen sink—if you remember to hook the hose over the edge—had come to a stop with a clatter and a scrape. As she pulled out the wet laundry to hang it on racks in front of the wood stove, the words tumbled out:
“I’ve had it with this. I have really, really, really had it…”
Well, so have I. Had it for years, in fact. She meant the frontier lifestyle in the old adobe, which pulls in some other things, but I was already sore from a self-critical load on the very same subject. I just don’t know what the fuck to do about it, which is how I replied. Two mistakes right there.
I apologized, of course. (More than once.) We’re in this together, she knows how it is.
And you all know there is a way out. We can go somewhere boring where houses are cheap. We can buy something cheap here and eat dirt and die. We can rent a nice house and get tossed after a year. Or I can buy us a ranch and a new 4WD… Maybe not by the end of the week, but hey: If she misses her old girlfriends, she can hop on a plane. I’ll hook the kayak up to the Jeep and go looking for whales. We’ll have a beautiful greenhouse and grow kumquats and beer.
Tell me about the rabbits, George. Hell, I just did.