To show how strange being in Virginia really is, I will offer the following evidence, in fthe orm of a conversation between my mother and me.
me: "Is there a coffee maker at the cabin?" ["Cabin" meaning my parents' little house on the New River, about 30 miles away.]
mom: "No, but there's instant."
me: "Oh, well, instant's fine."
"Instant's fine"?!? I hardly know myself.
We spent most of yesterday at this cabin/cottage place, en route having a discussion over the difference of what "cabin" and "cottage" technically denote, and deciding that this was probably a cottage because cabins are rustic, whereas their river house is just small. The setting is truly lovely, with the New River streaming by, going over enough rocks here and there to make happy splashing sounds. There is a hill leading right down to the bank on the other side, and all the trees are turning darker green and rust and yellow (none of the trees here turn red for whatever reason). I put on the big, shit-kicker-y boots and waded in to look at shells and rocks and stuff. V nice. My dad offered to give me a turn on the riding mower, but after watching him bounce around, I decided I would rather just keep my teeth, and took the dog for a walk instead.
The house itself, however, is heinous! Completely random furniture (whatever my parents and aunt and uncle had lying around that they didn't need), no color anywhere, and bad 70s rec room paneling. It reminded me a lot of Luci's parents' beach house, but about 20% the size and clearly lacking any sort of plan for the spaces and furnishings. But the view was fantastic, that's for sure. All that was missing was a sign that says "If you're lucky enough to be at the river, you're lucky enough." Perhaps will cross-stitch them one for Christmas.
Today's plan: visit mom's mom and then hunt for yarn stores in Roanoke. Originally my mom had proposed that we pick up her mom and go for a drive on the Blue Ridge Parkway. It's as though she doesn't know me at all - has she forgotten all the tortured hours I spent as a little kid on our annual drive to Virginia, curled up in a corner of the back seat of the car trying not to be sick on the winding? It's akin to suggesting we all go out for seafood. Even weirder was that she sounded genuinely surprised when I reminded her that I tend to get car sick on hilly roads. She meant well, though.
