Road Reservations

A long-awaited lunch, purchased by my editor, is now sitting uneasily at the bottom of my belly. I continue on with my day, seemingly unawares that the grease-laden meal is slowly planning to wreak havoc on my arteries. Oh joy. But who can say no to a free lunch? Not me. In any case, I have been consuming more than my share of low-fat, low cholesterol Subway sandwiches (and chocolate chip cookies – uh, oh) lately so maybe the effects of this, my midday meal transgression, will be minimal. Things are winding down here and soon I will be on my way *home. I don’t much enjoy the trip *home. I am not accustomed to long drives and regard them as perilous, especially this time of year when weather can be spontaneous and creative in its crappy manifestations. Adding to my anxiety about this particular trip is daylight savings time, which thrusts my Grand Prix and me into the unwelcome darkness that much sooner.

But before I can even get on the road, I will have to unload some excess baggage from my trunk and my backseat: cleaning supplies and miscellaneous other items I brought home from the apartment last night and was too tired to unload at 9 p.m. Then I should really throw some personal items into a bag for the next few days. I won’t need much; I will only be home for two days. There are a few items that are imperative to the trip (glasses, contact lenses, my purse, gas money, maybe one nice outfit to wear on Thanksgiving), anything else (soap, underwear, socks, clothes that in general match) aren’t as important because the homestead continues to have many of these items in stock.

Then I will have to drop off the sunshine of my life, the consummate underwear inspector, Ella dog, at the Doggy Boarding House. Oh my sweet little Ella dog. I am feeling like a bad “mother” lately for having put her through such trauma as moving, then refining her to a cage in the nippy, three-season porch during the long workday. Next week things will be much more normal: I will be working eight-hour days and we can go for a nice walk over my lunch break AND after work. Unfortunately, try as I might to convey this to her, it is highly unlikely that she understands. If only it were as easy to breakdown as “Walk” or “Potty outside.” Despite her usual, unaffected, ever-optimistic demeanor, I have to believe the situation has been stressful on her, too.

The first day I left her in the new home, alone, unhindered. She chewed a hole in “our” bed comforter. Chewing anything other than a bone is not really part of her usual behaviour.

Again I feel guilt. Bad “mother.”

They like Ella at the Doggy Boardinghouse, and she is a brave little soldier when I drop her off. This experience, I believe, is more traumatizing for me, than for her. We will only be apart for a few days, but throwing yet another trauma right on top of the move - right on the heels of my “bad mothering” – I can’t help but feel guilty.

I know of course, she will be fine, and God-willing, so will I. Soon it will be time to hit the road. I better get ready.


*Home refers to the “Mother ship” or my “place of origins” in Wisconsin.