…the bunnies, apparently, took this very seriously.
Another harrowing drive along route 12 last night to bring me and the kidlettes back to the Other Dakota. Again with the fog? I mean really. At least the deer had the good sense to stay at home. But my god the bunnies! Never in my life have I seen so many rabbits hippity hoppity-ing along the side of the road, across the road, in the middle of the road, or just sitting in large rabbit pow-wows on the edge of the road. It was really very impressive. And pheasants. I’m used to the pheasants. Stupid fucking male pheasants and their long showy plumage, aim for the breeders – that’s what I say. They’re generally slower in crossing the road and easier to splat with a tire rather than smack with a grill or windshield. It’s those males that tend to screw up the grille and the glass. Did I mention that I really have a deep seeded hatred for pheasants? At least the blasted bunnies have the sense of self-preservation to hippity-hop their happy asses out of the way of on-coming traffic.
Driving in dense fog, while causing a driver to concentrate almost to a point of physical pain, also has a tendency to make to the mind wander. Thither and yon went my neurons last night, randomly trailing from the old friends I’ve reconnected with thanks to the electronic heroin-crack that is Facebook, to my college days of yore when driving in crazy weather made me believe that the world had been taken over by aliens in the dead of night. Well, to be honest, it was a combination of crazy frosty-foggy-wind that had blown everything to a 45-degree angle and lay down ice so thick it looked like it had been firehosed and the hallucinations from sleep deprivation and a handful of recreational drugs, which shall remain nameless. But I must say that it is experiences such as that one drug addled drive (and others) that taught me valuable lessons regarding using my eyes in situations where they may or may not be trustworthy. And anyone who has driven in dense fog for any length of time during the night should be able to attest to the fact that after awhile, the ocular orbits tend to do goofy things.
This is not to say that drugs are good, or that I am telling any of you, dear readers, to go out and get high, or least of all go get high and then drive. I never said I was not an idiot in my youth. Most of the fun drugs are illegal. And as such, should not be procured or partaken of. However, if one is willing to take one’s freedom in one’s hands, at least make sure that you’re good at it. In short, don’t do drugs unless you’re good at it. I’m not talking about addict-type good, I’m talking about being able to ingest and enjoy to the fullest and then put it down without a second thought. Addicts are not good at drugs. People who take LSD and think they can fly (and I have never, ever met one of these people) are not good at drugs. I could go on, but I think you get the idea.
And where else did my exhausted mind wander to while listening to Fall Out Boy and watching for bunnies amidst my soupy surroundings? To my husband. My husband, who, I have to confess, I am still in love with. Six years, two goofy-ass kids, and one 18-month deployment later, and I’m still crazy in love with my husband. He still lapses into backwoods grammar from time to time and occasionally forgets how to dress, his ears are still three times too big for his head, and his smile will never be Hollywood white, but he still makes me feel like the hot chick at the record store that I was when we first met. He still jokes about getting me knocked up so that I’d marry him, even though we were already engaged, and he’s still trying to give me everything I think I want just like he promised he would when he proposed 7 years ago on my parents’ front porch.
So for today, I’m glad to be home. Even if it is in the Other Dakota, land of ethanol and pheasants.