Awake early, early, early. Partly because unable to sleep; too much story flitting in the head. Insomnia takes over at around 3:30. Partly because early-rising is necessary to give Chervil a ride to work. Her car has been loaned to a friend whilst I argue with it about a variety of mild-neglect issues. The morning’s challenge, thus, is to rise early enough to get her to work and still get to my own Dull Dayjob on time–no mean feat in light of the fact that her job is a 45-minute drive northeast, and mine is a 25-minute drive due west.
Before I leave home, I take a moment to move the Element into the driveway from where it’s parked on the street.
Traffic is successfully surfed, though, and with some shrewd flaunting of speed limit laws I arrive at work in time to stop for Mountain Dew to help get me through the day.
It’s needed. The day is long and there’s not much work-related to do. I spend most of it puttering on the Internet, working on an article about a Ferrari I’m not particularly interested in, and lightly dreading the tasks to come after work.
By noon, sleet and freezing rain have begun to fall, as promised by the weather. I look forward to it somewhat. Winter is for cold weather; it’s been unseasonably warm and the notion of some genuinely ugly weather is perversely appealing.
Eventually the work day ends and I am off to my noisome task: repairing a damaged vacuum line on Jessamine’s Sable. I don’t much want to do this, because the line is buried underneath the intake manifold, but the car wants fixing and that’s how to fix it. It’s literally a 23-step process to get the thing off, and it’ll take at least two hours.
I’ve borrowed Cinnamon’s garage and blazed up my trouble lights and heater, so it’s somewhat warm even with freezing rain pelting the walls. When I finally get the manifold off, I hold it up and shout, “RICTUUUUUS!” in a guttural voice of triumph. Torn bits are repaired, new gaskets and plugs are installed, and the engine is successfully buttoned up…but it still doesn’t start.
There is a moment of frustration, but not real panic. This happens; fix one thing and another promptly breaks. It’ll be another day before the Sable’s done, then; I need to make my way home. Perhaps it’s a matter of the Trickster at work; it would have been hard to safely drive Jessamine’s car, after all, because it needs the brakes bled badly.
It’s late but I know there’s no food at home and I need to pick up raspberries for a party tomorrow. Kroger is good for wandering about in a daze, a little voice in my stomach whining that it wants something, but refusing to elaborate as to what. Eventually I pick up fresh (ish) catfish and remember that there are sweet potatoes that need to be cooked. There’s also a stray Hot Wheels Honda S2000 that I don’t have; that falls into the basket too.
Before I get home I stop at the party store that sells Bomba energy drinks and pick up four. New Year’s Eve is coming, plus it’s been a long day and I want to treat myself. Bombas are tasty and weirdly satisfying, enough so that I’m willing to pay alcohol prices for them. Perhaps they can be my alcohol.
At home, a pair of looping skid marks in the crusty snow on the road crosses the street and goes up into my yard, right through the spot where the Element was parked this morning. I nod knowingly to myself.
Dinner is done at 10:20. The cat is glad to have me home. My feet begin to warm up after a half hour or so. I putter on the Internet some more and shift story elements in my head, making notes preparatory to the large beta-edit I’m going to do on Holly’s book this weekend (it’s a three-day weekend, so I can throw up the blanket fort and refuse to go anywhere or log onto the Internet, focusing only on writing and maybe the occasional household chore). Day is decreed to be exhausting, but a success.