An hour and twenty minutes to get home after getting mired in some inexplicable traffic snafu down in Loveland, a sleepy river town that's sold out to monstrous development in the past couple of years. Anyway. I needed to cut through Loveland to get out to my grandmother's old farmhouse, where one surviving cat still lives in the tall weeds and scrub, presumably supplementing its diet on various rodents and birds, but my sister--my dear, huge-hearted sister--insists on driving down the rutted gravel lane to regularly feed the cat. So I tried to get there. Through Loveland. And failed. And my turnaround and attempted rerouting took almost as long as the slow, gluetrappy immersion into the clusterfuck that had one car getting through a green light every two light changes. Oh, god, listen to me, such first world problems, boo hoo; I used to live in Houston, Houston, where a 90-minute commute to cover a scant 8 miles on the freeway was the daily penance for living so close to downtown. Still. I wanted to step out of the car and bash my head open on the nearest limestone outcropping. I do not do traffic well. As long as it's moving, even creeping, I'm fine. But standing still in traffic feels like being stuck in a hot creaky elevator, but the elevator is my spine, or maybe my throat, and I can't breathe, can't relax, hate feeling corralled--
So: Happy 8-month anniversary to my dear Taylor. I've calmed down by listening to some old Indigo Girls CDs and watering the plants out on the patio. Now we can go out to a nice dinner and celebrate.
Oh, yeah: he is driving.
Rodney Gomez: A Short Tablature of Loss
1 week ago