A favorite coffee mug of mine--a lovely glazed light gray ceramic piece of art, with a handle in the shape of a graceful cat, just fell from my hutch, along with a book, a magazine, and two notices from Koda's school.  Why does this minor occurrence [even the mug survived the fall] rate a journal entry?

Because the Navy is dropping bombs.  LIVE bombs.  And has been since 9 January.  And will be, between 8:00am and midnight, every day until 25 January, according to this article--which very handily also gives a toll-free number for "noise issues".

It isn't the noise that's bothering me; it's the shuddering house, the rattling windows, the skittish pets--the interminable headache and edginess of the entire experience.  The Ocala Forest is about 25 miles away from here, and we're used to the routine bombing practices.  But normally, they occur only three or four days per year.  And normally, they don't use live ordnance--which, we are rapidly discovering, is much louder and much more effective at vibration-making, than the usual dummy bombs.  They're annoying, but tolerable.  However.  Every freaking day for seventeen days?

My mother points out that it could be worse--we could actually live in Ocala, where more things fall off more hutches, and windows actually break.  And I could be out of Ativan.  And/or coffee.  And/or cigarettes.  All I'm really out of, at this point, is patience.

Here is an interesting editorial about the practice; Glenwood, the town in the dateline, is actually where I live, and the author gives a good description of the practice--and  saved me from placing what would have been a useless call to the Volusia County Sheriff's Department.

Gawd--there goes another one three.  The dog is whimpering in his crate, two cats just raced down the stairs and under the bed, and a small tree limb fell in the yard.  Nine more days of this is unthinkable.

Okay.  Done ranting.  Going now to hide under the bed with the cats.