Wednesday from Hell: The public post.
Last night we ran out of propane, long after the nearest place closed. This means no cooking. No, we do not have a microwave. No cooking means no coffee in the morning. For those of you who don't subsist on coffee, this is a very, very bad thing.
An 8:30 AM call from my bank did not bode well for the day. I had hit rock bottom and shit kept falling on my head. My domain was down -this was intertwined with the bank's call, and means I wasn't getting e-mail.
The landlord kindly let us use her stove to heat water for coffee.
We stuck around until the mail came, and as soon as it did, we were packed up to go to the bank, to empty tanks, to get propane, and a paltry few groceries.
Not so fast! the battery was dead, the beastie wouldn't start.
I pulled the Golf around into the mud and miraculously the jumper cables reached and we got her started.
We get to the bank, and I go striding in there. It was mostly empty, but everyone looked at me like some scene out of a western saloon. I couldn't think of anything appropriately cowboyish to say, so I went to the island and got my business done. I was still more attention than I wanted. I smiled at the manager staring at me. She smiled back, amused.
Okaaay, hair was the usual; shirt: Red flannel; bra: On; jeans: black... Ah.
I was wearing my wellies.
I summoned an air of normalcy and got my business done, talked pointlessly to a condescending young manager about interest rates, damn near went off on him, mostly because he was telling me shit I knew and not shit I WANTED to know, when I finally pried it out of him, I shook his hand, trying not to break it, and went stomping out to the beastie and my patient partner.
On to the fairgrounds. Dumping tanks went fine, thank goodness.
Back toward home and to the RV place for propane.
Dude overfilled the propane by 4 gallons. So: Star beastie, pull it forward. Not where Doug wanted it, start beastie again, move beastie forward again. Turn beastie off again, let propane out.
While that was going on we went to talk to Dave, who's pretty much always there and we exchange chicken and fishing stories and the like. Doug's done, he comes in, we go out to the beastie, warning them we might be back begging for a jump.
The beastie starts-barely. We go to the grocery store, pick up bread, milk and cheese while Mike sits with the beastie running in the parking lot to *hopefully* charge the battery some more.
Home. Calls to and from Adam & Sue, Mike's consideration, hugs and sympathy, the company of young chickens, a bit of rescue money from Mom, plus a treat from Pete, put some tasty frosting on El día de mierda constante.
An 8:30 AM call from my bank did not bode well for the day. I had hit rock bottom and shit kept falling on my head. My domain was down -this was intertwined with the bank's call, and means I wasn't getting e-mail.
The landlord kindly let us use her stove to heat water for coffee.
We stuck around until the mail came, and as soon as it did, we were packed up to go to the bank, to empty tanks, to get propane, and a paltry few groceries.
Not so fast! the battery was dead, the beastie wouldn't start.
I pulled the Golf around into the mud and miraculously the jumper cables reached and we got her started.
We get to the bank, and I go striding in there. It was mostly empty, but everyone looked at me like some scene out of a western saloon. I couldn't think of anything appropriately cowboyish to say, so I went to the island and got my business done. I was still more attention than I wanted. I smiled at the manager staring at me. She smiled back, amused.
Okaaay, hair was the usual; shirt: Red flannel; bra: On; jeans: black... Ah.
I was wearing my wellies.
I summoned an air of normalcy and got my business done, talked pointlessly to a condescending young manager about interest rates, damn near went off on him, mostly because he was telling me shit I knew and not shit I WANTED to know, when I finally pried it out of him, I shook his hand, trying not to break it, and went stomping out to the beastie and my patient partner.
On to the fairgrounds. Dumping tanks went fine, thank goodness.
Back toward home and to the RV place for propane.
Dude overfilled the propane by 4 gallons. So: Star beastie, pull it forward. Not where Doug wanted it, start beastie again, move beastie forward again. Turn beastie off again, let propane out.
While that was going on we went to talk to Dave, who's pretty much always there and we exchange chicken and fishing stories and the like. Doug's done, he comes in, we go out to the beastie, warning them we might be back begging for a jump.
The beastie starts-barely. We go to the grocery store, pick up bread, milk and cheese while Mike sits with the beastie running in the parking lot to *hopefully* charge the battery some more.
Home. Calls to and from Adam & Sue, Mike's consideration, hugs and sympathy, the company of young chickens, a bit of rescue money from Mom, plus a treat from Pete, put some tasty frosting on El día de mierda constante.