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.
Hee. But ye gods, I can't imagine living with that for more than just a day or two. Eeeek.