Kage Baker would have said this was a write-off day: time to stock up, fort up and hibernate. She’d have checked the pantry for staples, and urged a quick run to the market for whatever was lacking – masa, olives, Funyums, Coke, deviled ham. Rum.
We’d have gone out for whatever took our fancy, making sure to swing by the beach on the way home to admire the waves. They get impressive in Pismo when a storm is on the way, and one is reminded that one of the many Graveyards of the Pacific begins only a few miles out to sea.
Then we’d head home, scamper upstairs to the bugling of Harry (who always seemed to feel we ought to be able to teleport right up the stairs) and settle down. We’d turn on the fireplace (electric). Kage would play Monkey Island and wander the web and eventually end up watching cake decorating shows and Top Gear and The Wrong Box. I would knit and read.
Now … the temperature has plummeted ahead of the storm, and it’s very dark in L.A. I checked the river, and it’s rising steadily – the ducks are floating now, instead of wading; and the cormorants have retreated to the banks because the carp and catfish (And tilapia. And sunfish. And minnows. And bass. And steehead trout …) have all headed for the bottom.The hills of Griffith Park have vanished in the mist.
It’s finally begun to rain. I made a dash out for food and a wireless mouse and Turbo Tax and firewood (for the real fireplace). Harry’s looking out the window making rude remarks about the ravens stuck in the wet trees, the Corgi is snoring, and a little black cat is curled up in the coat I left on my bed.
I have a stack of books and a bag of knitting. I am going to sit on the couch and look at them until I feel the urge to move. Or eat the miniature cupcakes with lavender frosting that we got on impulse. Or sleep. If I can work up the energy to move the cat.
Day officially written off.