Rocking Chair

This has been an odd weekend. Friday was fine. I had lunch with a friend and scoped out a lunette. I came home feeling a little stuffy but seemed just allergy-related. Saturday I got up and weeded some, but was waylaid by a huge sneezing fit, so I came back inside where the Butcher said I looked sunburned, even though I’d only been outside for, maybe, 40 minutes, which is less than the normal time I spend weeding.

And I did feel kind of puny so I spent the day reading and drinking water. I went to bed at 9 and got up at 9 on Sunday. All Sunday I felt mildly nauseous, but otherwise not terrible, and I got the bathroom cleaned, the kitchen cleaned, the dog cleaned (not in that order) and got the Butcher to come back with me to the lunette because I was afraid I’d fall up on the thing, back behind the ridge where no one could see me and I’d be close enough to WKRN that they’d send a camera man to watch the paramedics extract me from the Civil War battlement. I have a feeling the Butcher would have not been much more help but to laugh at me, but at least I would not have had to be there, laying broken in a heap alone back behind the earthen wall, the train tracks down in a gulch behind me, imagining the men leaping into that gulch to try to escape the Confederates, them laying there 150 years earlier, in their own broken heaps until the paramedics arrived.

It’s one thing to lie in your own broken heap, the silence of a Sunday afternoon broken only by your occasional sobbing. It’s quite another thing to lie in a broken heap with the silence of a Sunday afternoon broken by the memory of other people’s sobbing.

Anyway, today I woke up and my armpit is so sore that I can only hazard a guess that one of my lymph nodes under there is unhappy with whatever was trying all weekend to bring me down. I assume it’s some tentacled-horror. That seems the only logical guess.

Oh, no, damn it. I just looked up at the title of this post and remembered what I started this whole meandering mess of a post to tell you. My parents bought us a rocking chair. I want to sit in it all day and crochet… something… I don’t even know. I want to invite people over just so that I can sit in the rocking chair to talk to them.

Honestly, what the fuck is George Jones talking about–he don’t need no rocking chair? Dude, obviously, you must have gotten a shitty rocking chair from someplace, because I kind of need this rocking chair. George Jones: wrong about rocking chairs, wrong about drinking and driving your lawn mower, wrong for America.

Okay, maybe not wrong for America. Seriously, America, how can you be mad at a man who sings that song? I’m not saying that’s the best George Jones song ever, but it is the most perfect George Jones song. And don’t even argue with me until you fully appreciate the perfect mix of hilarity and sadness. Is there anyone who ever sang the “I’ve been made a fool of” song any better?

Nope.

Still wrong about rocking chairs, though.

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