Let It Rain

The water is a steely gray here in Margaritaville this morning. Like my brain. Or my murderous heart.

My mom's alarm clock went off at a few minutes past midnight. One of those beeping clock radio alarms that sounds like the warning for the end of world. Does the oxygen machine make that sound if someone stops breathing? This was what I wondered as I dashed down the stairs. The possibility for beeping is far too prevalent in modern life. Carbon dioxide alarm? Security system letting me know the power is out? Smoke alarm battery? Freezer door? Fridge door? Even the fucking wine refrigerator beeps if the door is not closed tight. Danger, danger, danger your wine will not be chilled to the proper temperature.

"I didn't touch it," my mom said as we stared at the offending keeper of time.
Whatever.

I did not sleep. Thought about packing for my trip. Thought about my folding travel yoga mat and wondered if it would fit it my back pack and if it could double as a sleeve for my laptop. Now there's a first world problem for you. Or I might be a genius. I thought about flying. I will spare you those thoughts. Thought about gin. Thought about how disorienting travel is for my mom and felt suitably guilty. She keeps saying my brother is going to drive her to Iowa from Maryland. I keep explaining. (while thinking about gin.) I try not to correct my mom about a lot of stuff. Just roll. But sometimes it's necessary to say over and over again, "Nope. We're not leaving tomorrow. Nope. Don't pack your toiletries yet. Nope. You're gonna sleep in your bed TWO more nights." Who wouldn't think about gin.

When my kids were young and we traveled and the Someone would keep me hanging saying he didn't really know if he'd be able to go because of work, I would ask myself if it was really worth it to plan a trip. To go through all the prep and planning and pet sitters and blah, blah, blah..

It was worth it every time.