How to not blow away

There’s a wind advisory tonight. The notification came in the form of the door flying open and hitting the wall. Woody looked at me like, You gonna do something about that? Same way he handles knocks at the door. I got up and closed it. It blew open again. He got up on the bed just in case. In case what, I don’t know. I repeated the slamming and blowing open process like you do when you know it won’t help but you’re not sure what else to do. Doors are supposed to latch. It’s one of the main functions of a door. Didn’t latch. I knelt down and studied the two pieces that are supposed to fit together, one inside the other. Saw the issue. Carved out a little more room for the latch. Slammed it. And it held, as well as it can I guess.

I’m in a cabin in somewhere Oklahoma because a lot people who’ve finished a lot of books said this is the way. I argued with them, mostly in my head, because I’m stubborn but a coward. Then I counted their books and mine. I’m no good at math but I’ve got one and they’ve got enough that I should quit being a jackass and listen to well-meant advice from people who’ve earned the right to give it.

I got here Saturday night. It was a seven hour drive according to GPS but that’s if you’re doing 75. The van gets a little squirrely at 70. And I refuse to torture Woody if I can help it. So we try to stop at a cool trail and get a couple miles done. Well, I do a couple. He zooms back and forth wondering why I don’t try using four legs. So it’s probably double for him.

I figured I’d spend a day settling in but there’s no closet or drawer to unpack into. It’s just a cabin by another smaller cabin at the end of main street that’s also a highway up to Kansas, and the town is this one street with some closed up shops, a gas station and a grocery. The grocery was closed. The lady at the gas station told me to put rocks in my pockets, keep from blowing off. So I spent the five minute walk back to my cabin pissed off that I forgot that one, the silly piece of advice I could’ve put in my wind story.

Woody likes it here. He’s been busy hunting whatever’s living under the abandoned bus out back. Which is good because other than his morning walk, I spent the rest of Sunday and all of last night puking up nothing at all. Bodies are ridiculous. Whatever gas station burrito my stomach was mad about was long gone, long before this. What it needed was water. Gatorade. Something. What it decided it needed was to toss up anything that might’ve helped. I finally chewed up enough Benadryl, (haha fuck you, stomach) that it accidentally absorbed some and fell asleep. (It’s an anti-emetic. You’re welcome. I’m not a doctor. I read books with plots like how to make him keep the poison down. Then I ask one of the everyone in my family who’s a nurse. Don’t sue me. Don’t kill your husband. Unless he has it coming.)

I slept most of today. But the grocery was open. An old cowboy was playing with Woody out front when I came out with my bag of soup and saltines and gatorade. Still not trusting my stomach. He said the river up north should entertain Woody for a few hours. So we’re gonna check that out later. Then he told me to put rocks in my pockets. Goddamnit.