In eight days, I leave for my two week solo vacation. Well, I am taking the dog so almost solo. I have had a few folks say, you'll never make it.
I say, as long as I don't have to empty the compost toilet, I'll be fine.
Fishing gear, new telephoto lens. Lots of wool socks. Wine glasses I have been meaning to take for a year- I don't care if we're drinking two buck chuck, you still need a proper glass.
Wicks, lamp oil, long underwear. It'll be in the thirties, low forties at night. I've looked forward to this for so long I can't quite believe it's coming up. I did have a small anxiety attack about the axe murderer who would be wandering around and a friend said, oh, not during mud season. I mean, really.
I am worried I will miss my kids and bag the trip after a week. I picked two because I knew I wanted to get on the other side of that.
It doesn't help to have a small betting pool going on re:when will Sara come home.
Jeanine... I will miss Jeanine but there is something rock solid about our relationship right now. I have no even remote interest in anyone else, or changing what we have now- I'm certain she feels the same.
Muck boots, a bright baseball hat, the new hammock. Not that it will be warm enough to hang out on the hammock, but one can hope.
Few more days. Plenty to keep me very busy before hitting the road. I'm not sure what I am looking for in this solitude. I do know I'm looking. I want to spend a day without speaking to see how it feels. My kids say I cannot possibly do that. I yammer on- and Walter, too- and can chat with pretty much anyone.
A writing teacher once said to me, writers will do anything to avoid writing. Talking to friends is the number one downfall of a good novel being done in a timely fashion.
She was right.
I plan on picking fresh mussels and taking the time to cook a great dinner for myself- something I used to do a long long time ago. Now, whenever I get the chance not to cook, I am happy with a bowl of cereal.
Eight more days.