Asleep at the Wheel

There's a pretty good chance I've contracted Strep from Cordale. I refused to even acknowledge the scratchy throat I woke up with until Morgan told me he was sick. I thought it was just from talking too much and going without sleep.

Mary and Kathy stopped by this afternoon (and I had to feign horror at the state of my house) to talk about the problem neighbors and reassure me that she's evicting them. I've never met Kathy before even though she owns the house, having always dealt with Mary because she lives in town. Kathy seemed like a nice person, if a little odd. She said she liked what I've done with the place, and I wondered if she remembers what it looked like before, the holes and grime. She should be paying me rent.

I'm tired of winter. I'm tired of wading through three-foot drifts down to the main reservoirs, my momentum stolen by the layer of ice beneath the new snow. I'm tired of cancelling plans due to weather. Tired of going ahead with plans and increasing my chances of dying on the road. But I'm producing an astonishing amount of art because I'm stuck in the house, and I can't complain about that.

Jeff called this afternoon to tell me that the effluent turbidimeter is "shittin' the bed" and wanted to know if I knew how to turn just that individual alarm off until we can get a look at it in the morning. I had him set the high limit to something outrageous and put my name first on the dialer just in case. I'm facing the pleasant prospect of a three-day week and the new Salt Lake paper. Last Sunday I did the crossword in eleven minutes while Filter 6 was drawing down and Jeff was in Mesquite at a roping. He didn't win but, as usual, he had three hours' worth of stories about being this close.

I'm this close to many things, but it's easy to be patient when you're me.