Letters from Florence, part 4

9-14-2018 7:54 pm

Dearest,

Well, it finally has happened. After silently suffering year after year trying to transplant my Northern roots in a Southern state, I finally went full redneck.

You would have had to judge for yourself in the moment, but at face value, it ticked off all the boxes.

1. Me, standing on my porch in a Carolina hurricane;

2. in short-shorts and a bathrobe;

3. holding a can of light beer in a foam koozy

4. hair in a messy bun (less Duchess-of-Sussex messy bun and more Queen-of-the-Neighborhood-Cats messy bun);

5. talking to a police officer.

Perhaps if I stay out here long enough with my cooler, someone from the TV will come and interview me. I better put on a bra.

(Mind you, the officer was there to ask about a house alarm in the neighborhood. But who’s to say I wasn’t out there acting like a right disorderly criminal? You weren’t even there.)

9 p.m.

The ice cream is gone. I repeat: our ice cream rations are completely depleted and we may not see anything close to it again until next week.

12:17 a.m.

The enlistees are asleep n their bunks.

The co-captain is also asleep. I suppose I’ll be manning the nightwatch.

The idea of “family beds” has never appealed to me. Co-sleeping makes me run for the hills. I have tried taking naps with these people and it always ends with me waking to the smell of other people’s feet too close to my face.

Yet tonight, I fear that we have trained them a little too well to stay in their own beds. What I would give for us all to sleep in a big heap together, just for one or two nights.

Instead, I’ll fall asleep in the morning, on the sofa, where everyone is shouting and wrestling and asking for second breakfast at 8:47 a.m. I will sleep then, because at least I’ll know we’ll all be together in the same room.

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