Why not, right?

January 2, 2013

I’ve always been a commuter, if that’s what you call it.  The ride has never been an hour or anything, but I reckon anything over eleven minutes (i.e. the amount of time it took to get from Momma’s to the Sonic) counts as a commute.  In most of the places I’ve lived and worked I’ve had the pleasure of a carpool buddy.

Sweet Betsy who rode on two wheels more often than four.  A passel of Colombians.  Mrs. Nicosia– her husband always fixed her coffee and mussed her hair.

Now I live four miles from my mailbox and 42 minutes and 38 seconds from work.  There’s no cell phone service on the drive and I’ve forsaken country radio for another.

I am married to the audiobook.  Blessed assurance, the audiobook.

In the short time that we’ve lived here– here in the middle of the greatoutnowhere– I’ve cycled through trashy romance.  I know, I know.

And the slasher thriller — What was I thinking?

And the self-helpers– You’re just a change away from your best you!

And at long last, I have discovered the western.

Hondo did it.  He won my heart.  The language was beautiful and slow like the drawl of the man who read it, the story was magical like fairy dust on angels’ wings, and there at the end I had to pull over.

Because the end?  The end was a hailstorm- a hailstorm of relentless, mascara-trashing tears.  I was pulled over on the shoulder or the road for all to see.  I was pulled over and I was a blubbering, squalling, snot-oozing mess.  And I didn’t even care.  Not at all.

I’m onto Telegraph Days now and Annie Potts has never been more divine.  Her voice suits Nellie and I am enamored.

Maybe I’ll get a perm and dye my hair red.  Why not, right?

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