I Have...Nads

 Let me explain the title.

I am menopausal, which means, my body has decided that hair has no rules anymore including location. It can grow wherever the hell it wants, and it seems to enjoy being on my face, especially, the parts of my face that at one time, did not play host to hair. It was definitely time to make changes. That’s when I discovered that I fucking hate plucking. It takes forever, it’s painful as hell, and I end up covered with stiff bristles yoinked out of my face that migrate into my bra and make me itch.

So, I tried waxing. Now, the cold wax stuff that you can do at home is not only painful, if you misplace the post wax oil, you’re sticky, and there ain’t nothin’ that’s gonna get that sticky off. After the fourth or fifth time, I decided this was absurd and I called my favorite stylist. I knew she did waxing, so I made the appointment. Up to that point, I’d left the mustache area alone because OUCH!, so when she waxed it, I had to grip the arm rests to keep myself from punching her in the mustache.

She said, “You showed remarkable restraint.”

“You have no idea,” I told her.

Back to plucking for the next 20+ years.

Recently, I did a little research and decided to give a home hot wax thing a whirl. There are several brands out there including a few that you heat up in the microwave. Not wanting to wait for an online order to be shipped, I went to the only place that sells this sort of thing, and is also far enough away from where I live so I won’t be recognized. I don’t have much pride, but what I do have, I tend carefully.

Unlike online, this store only had one brand of hot wax.

Now, I don’t know about other places on the planet, but in my world, “nads” is a slang term for gonads. I do not have gonads. I have never had them, and I’m not of the mindset to get a pair. Not even for my car.

Yet, there I was, wandering around the department store on one of those motorized scooters with a box of nads in the basket. The scooter already attracts unwanted attention, now it was saying, “Look, everyone, she has nads in the basket!” Oh, and the Best Part? I’d forgotten my damn grocery bags, which meant I had to make my way out to the car, past all the folks coming in, clutching a bag of tortilla chips and a box of nads in one hand and wielding my cane with the other. The only thing that could have made the moment worse was if I’d purchased hotdogs at the same time.

The cashier took great pleasure in my predicament, asking if I wanted any help...carrying my nads to the car (she didn’t say that last part, but it was there, dangling overhead, and we both knew it). I declined her generous offer, although it might have been worth seeing the expression on the courtesy clerk’s face when they were handed a box of nads and a bag of tortilla chips.

When I got home, I gently placed my box of nads on the table and looked at my daughter, daring her to say something. She couldn’t, as she was too busy bug-eyeing the box clearly marked “Nads” on the table.

“I finally decided since I can’t grow a pair, I’d buy ‘em.”

“Oh, god mom, really? Are you going to go there?”

“Have we met? Do you not know me?”

“This is going to be one of those really long--”

“Hey babe!” I called to my wife, “I got some nads!”

(from the other room) “S’about time. Who’d you take them off of?” she asked, coming into the dining room.

“Got a box from the store! Didn’t even have to take them off some rude old fart who refused to move his shopping cart.”

“Convenient.” I showed her the box. “Oh, you’re not kidding.”

“Nope. Now, it says I need to put my nads in the microwave until soft.”

Daughter begins to snicker. Wife rolls her eyes.

“It also says if my nads get hard before I’m done, I can put them back in the micro—wait, that seems a little counter intuitive. I mean, well, it hasn’t been THAT long since I’ve had relations with a man, but I’m pretty sure soft is not what--”

“Jeezus, mother!”

“Oh, that’s right, I found you under a rock. Sorry. Anyway, I guess boxed nads are different.”

“Well,” wife says, “maybe it’s whatever makes them shelf stable.”

“Do you think I need to worry about my nads going bad?”

“Mother...really?”

“It rhymes. Bad nads.”

“Is it legal for me to ground you?”

“No.”

“Darn.”

“I taught you better than that, young lady.”

“Goddammit, mother!”

“That’s my girl! Anyway, I’m gonna use my new nads to get my facial hair under control, and I’m gonna do it tonight, so I’m off to nuke my nads!”

Any further conversation was of a similar vein, so I’ll skip it. But… I got my nads all warmed up, sat down at the table and checked the instructions again. They strongly suggested (in bold type, mind you) that I should cover the floor with newspaper. The last time I had to do that, was when we had a puppy that peed on the floor. Were they expecting this to hurt so bad I’d lose control? I was beginning to fear for my face, but everything was ready so I started smearing warm nads on my chin.

It was nice, actually, but lawsy, was it messy! I had that purple stuff EVERYWHERE, and it left these long, strange strings of stiff wax hanging off my face, making me look something like a demented catfish. Daughter looked away, thinking I wouldn’t notice her laughing.

“I have naaaaads,” I sang, “I just bought naaaaads. I stuck them in the microwaaaaave, and now they’re on my face.” That’s when I definitely noticed the laughter, because it was preceded by a spew of coffee.

The wax removal was surprisingly painless, and all the offending hair was in the wax, not my face. In fact, I did my whole face, including the mustache, with painless success. I was pleased. Best of all, it was...easy as… balls!

The Prince of Pettiness

 

There are some people on this planet who desperately need something. Something like their very own angry island in the middle of nowhere. That’s where they can be angry at everyone for anything, real or imagined, and live angrily ever after.

The bastid across the road is one of those people. When we first moved here, he was very friendly. Grumpy, but friendly. His daughter gave us her phone number, asking us to “keep an eye on him, and if we don’t see him for a few days,” to give her a call. She even gave him our phone number to call if he needed anything, or to let us know he was leaving for a few days and to “not worry.”

As if.

Fast forward through some seriously annoying and expensive shit, and some seriously false accusations, and other things, and voila, you have what we’re calling a pissing contest of pettiness. Tammie is the adult in this situation, because she’s not doing anything (as usual), but I have taken it upon myself to flip the bird whenever I drive past his house. I’m also the one who got sick and tired of his motion-sensing floodlight illuminating our house every time a deer or rabbit wandered through his yard, so when I went outside with the dogs (in our yard, mind you) and the light went off, I dropped trou and mooned it (did I mention, he also has cameras attached to those lights? Yeah. Big Bertha was shining bright that night on his video screen). He did change the angle on the lights and camera shortly after my one-woman show-it-all.

The most recent event in the contest is truly going to be difficult to top (although, I have several ideas). My daughter has moved in with us and parks her vehicle in our driveway. She backs in so she can park right next to the fence on the passenger side of her vehicle. In order to do that, she had to come “close” to his property line, which she did not cross.

So, he decided to park his truck at the very edge of the property (but only the part where she needed to safely maneuver her vehicle to make backing up easier). Then, because he decided that wasn’t quite tacky enough, he included an old patio table with something heavy on it, an old muffler tossed on the ground, and a “PRIVATE PROPERTY” sign taped to the table.

Seriously. How can anyone BE that petty?

When he was still talking to us, he told us that he’d caught certain neighbors in his house, taking his stuff and prowling around his garage. Now, he’s accusing US of doing that to the very same neighbor he told us had been doing that first. I’ve never even set foot on his property, much less been inside any buildings.

Methinks someone’s nut is a little loosed in the noggin. I have no desire to set foot on his property, much less inside any of his buildings. If he falls in his yard, and I see him, I’ll probably call 9-1-1, but I’m not going over there to assess him. Throw dirt on him? Sure! But not see if he’s ok.

So, yea, I guess I have joined the petty parade, but to be honest, it would be just like him to fake a fall to lure us onto his property, then accuse us of trespassing and press charges against us. I mean, this is a guy who dug a trench across someone’s driveway so she couldn’t get out to go to work; he took the door off some guy’s truck because he was parked on the “wrong” side of the road and left his vehicle door open. Mind you, the bastid actually had to cross to the other side of the road to take off the door, but that didn’t matter. To him, anyway.

All hail the prince of pettiness. We salute you by dropping trou and kissing our knees.

Catch-Up

 Once again, time has managed to get away from me and I've let the blog go fallow for a while. No big surprise.

Shortly after that last blog post, Tammie's mother passed away. Her last few weeks were really hard on us, as the level of care she needed had quadrupled. Thank goodness for hospice. Despite the emotional and physical exhaustion, we did get to laugh at one point when Tammie finally came out to her mother and confessed that she and I were a couple. "We've been a couple for a long time," she said. Her mother struggled to sit up, leaned towards her daughter and said, "I'm dying."

Ok, Old Woman, you win. Crossing over beats coming out.

Whatever.

Anyway, after that it was time to get things done. Like a nice long rest. Or several of them, because unless you're dead, a single nice long rest is not possible at our house. Not with those ridiculous dogs alerting us to every dust mote and sassy sparrow they happen to see (and damn, we have lots of both!)

We also decided to keep our current sleeping quarters and turn the main bedroom (the one recently occupied by the Old Woman) into an arts and crafts room. We have enough supplies to furnish it well into the next century, so what the hell, right? Why use one of the largest rooms in the house just for sleeping, when crafting is just as important, and we'd really love to have the dining room table back.

Unfortunately, there is a LOT of craft stuff that needs to be sorted and put away, shelves to be built (from scratch) plus there are holiday decorations, mystery stuff that will go back into the closet or wherever until I'm ready to deal with it, and family things that need attention.

Writing is happening, but not the projects I should be working on, but it is enjoyable, so I'll keep it. Tammie and I have been working on a project that has gotten a little out of hand, but we're having a blast, so once it's tidied up enough to read like it wasn't written by six-month-old kittens having a psychotic break, I can go back to the Citadel Chronicles and get Claire and Cole back on track. Gosh, that's a lot of C's...

By the way, I've stepped away from facebook again. I lurk about once a week, but I will admit I'm feeling a little less depressed now that I've stopped getting sucked into the bad behavior of others, and swimming in the backwash of drama that doesn't even belong to me.

Life is good. I want to keep it that way.

The Dying House

 

The past three weeks… four weeks? Honestly, maybe it’s been longer, but it doesn’t matter, because what really matters is this moment, and in this moment we’re waiting for Death.

A few months ago, the old woman decided to stay in her room. Tammie would get her out of bed and into a chair, where she could sit near the window, look at photographs of her late husband, and read the books and magazines on the little table next to her. No matter how many times we would try to coax her out of her room to come watch some television or visit with us, she would refuse. If we insisted, she would become agitated, and that was no good. So we stopped.

One day, she fell in her room when her leg quit working and ended up going to the ER where she spent several hours getting tests done and attempting to remove all the IV’s and monitors that were attached to her. That fall was the beginning of the end. It was the last day she spent any time sitting in the living room, and it was only for about 30 minutes. She always complained that her legs hurt, but we coaxed her to keep using them. She fell a few more times, and since she’d broken a couple ribs on that first fall, we couldn’t lift her with the gait belt, so we called the paramedics for a courtesy lift which she didn’t like. So she stopped. She stopped getting out of bed. She stopped going to the bathroom to void her bowels and bladder. She stopped eating solid food. She simply...stopped.

Someone, either at the hospital or fire department, suggested hospice, so Tammie called the old woman’s primary care provider, and she came to the house to assess her patient. It didn’t take long for her to agree that this situation wasn’t going to get better and we needed help. “We’ll turn the paperwork in today and you should be hearing from them by Tuesday.

On Thursday, hospice came in and it was a breath of fresh air. They were very upfront about what to expect and the relief we felt was immense. Their kindness and understanding were a balm to our ragged nerves and frayed emotions. After fifteen months of 24/7 care, we had found a lifeline; we had help and understanding. We also had a couple of booklets that explained what we can expect and that’s where we learned she’d been slowly dying for a few months.

By the time hospice got involved, the old woman was completely bedridden. We were changing diapers and bedding and she was only taking in liquids, and not large quantities. In attempts to keep her hydrated, we had been giving her electrolyte drinks, and came up with the bright idea of mixing the protein powder with it for a super meal. It worked. For a while. But it was too sweet and she asked to not have it any longer.

Then it was down to just the electrolyte drink (still too sweet), chicken broth, and water. Then just the broth and water. Then water. It wasn’t long before she forgot how to drink from a straw and we gave her water with those pink tooth sponges.

The social worker from hospice came to visit. She listened to us spill our guts, good, bad, and funny, and passed no judgment. She even laughed at our gallows humor and got our inappropriate jokes. She assured us there was nothing wrong with what we were saying, because that was our way of dealing with a very difficult situation.

It was a much more relaxing experience than the one we had with a nurse who wasn’t quite prepared for... us! After checking out the old woman, she came out to talk to us about meds and I mentioned that we would be interested in some home-health care help. She turned to me and asked, “So, how often are you here?” When I said, “I live here, this is my home,” you could hear her brain kind of back up and slowly fall over a cliff. “Oh” was all she said. I just smiled and sniffed the air, fragrant with the scent of burning synapses. The bath lady thinks Tammie and I are sisters. Some day we’ll laugh about it, but right now, we just want it to be over.

As crude, rude, crass, whatever as that may sound, it’s true. It’s heartbreaking to see the old woman in that room, the twilight cast of the sun through the blinds pinched closed against the light because it hurts her eyes. She sleeps all day now, barely moving, so Tammie and I have to do that for her. But first we have to give her pain meds because it hurts her so much. Her breathing is slowing to the point where we’re counting at least 4 seconds between breaths. Try it.

She gags and chokes on the drops of water she gets off the little dental sponge we use to give her water and to wet her excessively chapped lips. Her liquid pain medicine, metered out in .25 mg doses, causes more choking and gagging, but we have to give it to her.

One of her meds is to keep her calm, because that woman has the grip of a caped crusader when we’re trying to change or move her. She pinched me under my arm once and it felt like I’d been bitten by a horse. We got a new hospital bed for her, this one with half rails, so she can feel safe when we move her around on the bed. Unfortunately, with her grip, she’ll glom onto one of those rails and there’s no moving her. Tammie has tried to get her to hug herself when we’re doing this, and it helped for a while, but she forgot and the fight was on again. She’ll jam her elbow into the mattress, stiffen her shoulders, and become a solid rock of stubborn old woman.

As of this writing, she’s still alive, although I personally feel “alive” is a bit of a stretch. Let me rephrase that: She’s still breathing, she’s still waiting. I just wish I knew what it is she’s waiting for. Tonight, as we were tucking her in, we told her it’s ok to go. There are people waiting for her on the other side and she’ll get to see them again, only now she won’t be in pain, she won’t be tired. The music will play and she and papa will dance once again. We told her everyone understands and wishes her well, and it’s ok to go.

My Big Event

 I must say, despite all the good things that have been happening in 2021, it kind of feels like 2020 is still trying to get in a few good licks before it completely leaves my system.

In January, I was stressed beyond coping with everything that was going on: all the political crapola that was happening and being spilled over all of social media; the Old Woman continuing to drive us nuts; and of course personal finances (because not getting paid at the first of the month when you’re supposed to because all your bills are due then is just so much fun). Early one morning, I was awakened by a pain in my chest that wouldn’t go away. I listed all the symptoms of a heart attack, and the only one that fit was the pain, so I just figured it was asthma and tried to get back to sleep.

Not happening. Giving up on sleep, I got up and took an aspirin, which didn’t alleviate the pain. Then I took a hit of albuterol and the pain eased. So did my breathing. Asthma. It sucks.

Then, in the early hours of the 8^th of February, I was once again awakened with chest pain. I assessed what I was feeling: chest pain? Check. Jaw pain? Nope. Left arm pain? Nope. Tightening in the chest? Not really. Difficulty breathing? I’m asthmatic, so it wasn’t much different than usual.

What WAS I feeling? It felt like a pillow had been stuffed into my chest. A very hard pillow. But the difference this time was the pain in my back and what I can only describe as tingling “tracers” running down the backs of my arms. There was no relief in changing positions. I might have been a little nauseous, but it didn’t last long. Nothing read “heart attack” to me, according to what I’ve read about them. Later in the morning, Tammie and a friend finally convinced me to get checked out.

I called the non-emergency number for the local fire department and asked if I could come in and get checked out. “Of course, but are you ok to drive, or do you want us to come to you?”

The last thing I wanted was an ambulance sitting in the driveway. The Old Woman would have a cow, the dogs would lose their minds, and I really wasn’t in the mood to give the neighbors a show.

“I’ll be there in five minutes.”

The paremedics met me at the door and ushered me into a small room, hooked me up to the ekg and chatted with me about symptoms and stuff while the machine did it’s thing. The captain strongly suggested that I go to the ER because, while THE EKG WAS NOT SHOWING ANYTHING ABNORMAL, but he was concerned with my slightly elevated blood pressure.

I made them promise to not run lights and sirens.

We got to the hospital, where I was placed on a most uncomfortable gurney and hooked up to more monitors. There was a lump directly under my tail bone that, after an hour, had surpassed the pain in my chest and I set off alarms trying to get comfortable. I apologized and tried to be still. Blood was drawn, calls were made, and I heart someone at the nurse’s station say, “St. Joe’s is full. Longview has a bed, but they require a negative covid test.” Mind you, I was not the only patient in the place, so I didn’t think anything of it.

Until that nurse came in with the angry hamster on a stick and jammed it up my schnozz. “It’s a covid test. Longview won’t take you unless you’re negative.”

“Oh, my god, that hurt. What do you mean Longview?”

“We’re transferring you to a place with a cardiac unit because we can’t diagnose you here.”

Another ambulance ride and I was in Longview. More monitors, and of course, none of them use the same leads, so it was slap on, rip off, slap on again, rip off once more, and slap on. I felt terminally sticky. And MORE blood draws. IV’s hooked up, and so many beeps, hums, buzzes... They put me in a bed with one of those air mattresses that adjusts to keep you from getting bed sores, but this one was protesting my excess weight and refused to stop running. The whole time I was in it, that damn thing sounded like someone was waxing the floors right outside my door. But it was a pleasant distraction from all the beeps of the IV’s and monitors.

Within an hour of my arrival, I was listening to the doctor say a bunch of words, but only two stuck fast: “heart attack.”

“Wait… I had a heart attack? My heart attacked me? I thought we were friends!”

“Your enzymes are elevated, and continuing to climb which indicates damage, so tomorrow we’re going to do a procedure called a cardiogram and go on a tour of your heart. If it doesn’t look too bad, we’ll put you on meds. If it looks bad, we’ll put in a stent. If it looks REALLY bad, we’ll transfer you over to another hospital and they’ll do a bypass.”

“Um… ok.”

Now, mind you, I was NOT prepared for ANY of this, emotionally, or physically. I had NO change of clothes, NO phone charger (and my phone battery is notorious for lasting all of five hours on a charge, and it was already quite low). Contacting anyone had to be done quickly and via text (and only a couple of them). Fortunately, when I mentioned this to a nurse (around eight pm). She let me use her charger and I was able to bring my phone back to life, but since the battery had gotten so low, I would have to wait about 45 minutes to use it and she was going off shift in an hour, which meant I still wouldn’t have a full charge.

Fortunately(?), I was kept too busy to do much communicating. More blood draws, more questions, forms to sign, and at some point, someone brought me a tiny snack at 11:30 because I was going to be NPO at midnight and I hadn’t eaten since noon. I was having a hard time thinking about anything other than what was happening and the fact that both my parents, and my maternal grandparents, died from “cardiac events.”

I needed comfort, a friendly voice, some contact with my family, but… the charger was plugged in and the phone was out of reach, unless I got up from the bed to get to it. In order to get out of bed, I would have to call the nurse to have her come in and move the IV stand. I felt she had better things to do, so I stared at my phone and willed it closer. It didn’t work. Besides, I had no news to share, nothing new. I needed to get some rest, which was hard. Then my gut decided it had been good long enough and didn’t want to hold on to anything.

Three hours later, I felt like I’d shed 50 pounds. I was sure the bed would stop vacuuming all the air from the room, but no.

The next day was a waiting game of blood draws, IV’s of nitroglycerine that, let me tell you, WILL give you the WORST headache, and of course, I was not allowed aspirin, only tylenol, so that was fun. I did get an ice pack, which helped a great deal, but damn, that hurt. Fortunately, it was time to go in for the procedure. To keep me calm, they gave me a valium. To keep me alive (because I’m allergic to the contrast) they gave me a shot of benedryl.

I’m not sure what hit hardest, the valium or the benedryl, but I was pretty out of it by the time they rolled me into the OR. Of course, the pain wasn’t affected by the meds, and they were still doing all the jabbing, so that was lovely, but by the time they were ready to start invading my heart, I was happily snoozing and didn’t feel a thing.

Until the end.

They had put a compression bracelet on my wrist to keep the incision site closed. They’d held my arm in whatever position necessary for so long, my shoulder was on fire and my wrist was screaming. I must have struggled a bit because someone was telling me to relax and everything will be fine.

One question for medical personnel: WHAT THE HELL IS IT ABOUT NOSTRILS THAT YOU NEED TO JAM THINGS INTO THEM??? Seriously. I was starting to calm down when someone stuffed a grumpy hedgehog up my right nostril.

“What the hell was that for?” I demanded. The doctor said something and the nurse sounded defensive.

“It’s to check for MRSA. It’s IMPORTANT!” Just like that. To the doctor. And probably me. I kept my thoughts to myself after that.

TL:dr I had two heart attacks. My symptoms were NOT textbook, which is why it took TWO of them to get me to the hospital. I am now a card-carrying member of the “thing in my heart” club declaring my stent-in-residence. Also, there is residual heart disease, so I’ll be on a “heart healthy” diet for the rest of my life (which I fully intend will be long). It will be an adjustment, but it’s for the best. My body has been trying to get my attention for a long time to take better care of it. Apparently, diabetes wasn’t enough of a warning for me, so this time it brought out the big guns and, this time, I listened.

Onward Ho! We're Cooking Again!

 

I’ve made it to the point where I can function like a neuro-typical human and not either fight or cry when faced with conflict. I’m going to stick that in the positive column.

On another positive note, I’ve been cooking unusual, a.k.a. new-to-me recipes. We’ve been missing good Asian food where we live and we found out why after asking around. It seems most everyone here would rather drive 2.5 hours to the nearest big city for a meal of good Chinese food, than subject themselves to the local fare. Long car trips are not something we can do at this time because, besides the plague, the old woman doesn’t travel well, and quite frankly, watching her have “seconds” by whipping out her false teeth and licking them is just not something I’d like to experience in a public place. It’s rough enough at home, especially when she looks up and says, “mmm, good!”

I know, right? If I ever end up with false teeth, my children have permission to take them away if I ever start doing that shit.

We found an easy recipe for hot-and-sour soup, a long-time favorite of ours. So I made it, and you know, it was pretty damn tasty. It reminded me of the soup we got at a place we used to go to when we lived near Seattle. Their soup was ALWAYS made right there and it was amazing. Then the original owner retired and the person who took over started using a mix for the soup. Not ok. In fact, we were very sad at the quality of all the food we had there the last time, but I digress.

Egg rolls were next on the list and I had a recipe for air-fryer egg rolls, which, to be honest, I wasn’t sure would turn out.

I was kind of right. The flavor was amazing! EXACTLY like the ones we used to get at the restaurant, but I didn’t get enough oil on the wrappers and they got a little dry and, um, burnt in a couple of places. But I’m sure with practice, I’ll get them figured out and we can have them whenever I feel like chopping veggies until my back is bent and I can’t stand up straight. Oh, there was LOTS of chopping for both the egg rolls and the soup. We’re talking up to the eyeballs in mise en place, folks. And lots of chaos with some panic tossed in for good measure.

Because the recipes were new, I was a little flighty, going from one place to the next, then back… Next time, I’ll have a better idea of what to do and how to get everything set up first. Like, the day before or have someone else do it. Also, it will be beneficial if the old woman isn’t busy setting my hair on fire while I’m cooking because I’m pretty sure the cutting board will not withstand another round of chopping meat like that last one. The cleaver is heavy and I’m quite strong, so there are some seriously deep cuts in the surface of that plastic cutting board. I will admit, it was loud, it was destructive, but it was also highly satisfying.

So was the meal. Satisfying, not loud and destructive. I think next on my list of dishes to learn will be sweet-n-sour pork, bbq pork, Szechuan green beans, mu shu pork and I’d really like to get either fried rice or chow mein mastered. I’ve already done General Tso’s chicken a couple of times. Great dish, but the mess… yeowza! However, the sauce makes the chicken dish, and I got that one spot on so far.

I’ve even made pot stickers from scratch. Totally from scratch, like even the wrapper. It wasn’t hard, but it was a royal, tedious pain, and if you don’t keep the wrappers slightly damp, they dry out and get sassy when you try to wrap the filling. I may just stick to buying those, because dang…

I’ve found a source for sweet bean paste, which delights me. I want to make some baos, which are a big hairy joy because of all the extra kneading you have to do to get the texture just right, but they are so damn good, I just have to make it work.

Then there are the sesame balls, but I’m not sure I’m really ready for that one. The last time I tried it, things did not end well and I wound up with gooey, snotty balls of sticky mochi that were about as unappetizing as the description: gooey, snotty balls. However, I discovered the error of my ways and will know better than to drop them into that temperature of oil, causing them to kind of blow up… And the clean up for that one was off the charts. Sticky, starchy, gooey and greasy… The four horsemen of the kitchen apocalypse, also my constant companions while cooking, much to Tammie’s dismay.

Tonight, we’re doing leftovers, because neither of us feels much like cooking or cleaning.

Road Trip

 Getting out of the house has become one of those activities that, at one time, had almost been a bane of our existence, but has now become a necessity. What we miss most are those opportunities of going out together, just the two of us, for a nice trip to the grocery store, or better yet, just out tooling around the countryside on a whim or adventure. Still, getting away from the Old Woman, even if it’s a solo trip, has become our motive for keeping the car keys handy.

Any excuse to leave for a few hours is a good one.

However, neither of us can truly get “away” because our time off is wrapped in guilt for leaving the other one stuck in the pit of despair with the Old Woman. But that bit of guilt doesn’t stop us, so when an opportunity to travel 2.5 hours (one way) to see a friend came up, I didn’t blink twice, I just went. And yes, I feel guilty, and yes, Tammie gets a break very soon.

My get-away came in the form an offer to meet a friend in Olympia so I could pick up a glass etcher she was selling. We also decided to grab some lunch while we were there. I had intended to get gas on my way off the peninsula, but I was running late after having to scrape the windshield, and when I got in the car, the gas gauge read ¾ full. I figured I was good to go, so I did. And it was. It’s a Prius, so you can go a long way on about 7 gallons. Besides, there are gas stations in Olympia, so it was no big deal.

A little voice in my head said, “don’t you think you should just top it off before you go?” I told the little voice, “Bah, I’ll be fine. Besides, it’s a hybrid. I get EXCELLENT mileage.” I plugged my phone into the stereo with the aux tail, pulled up some Apocalyptica, and headed east, rocking out grooving on the familiar scenery. I passed through a couple small towns, with half a gas station each, toyed with the idea of taking a new route before remembering I was on a schedule and decided to stick with a familiar path. Pretty soon I hit the highway, tunes blaring, head nodding, feeling pretty ok.

When I got to Olympia, I still had four bars left on the gauge, so I knew I was golden. I was also hungry. My friend did some research on local Thai eateries, found a couple with good reviews and away we went. The reviews were correct, and the food was as excellent as the company. After we finished eating, we hit up an arts-n-crafts store so she could get some items for a project, and I found a watercolor book for beginners on sale, and two tiny (2.5 x 3.75 inches) tablets of hot press watercolor paper. I have some of my mom’s watercolor blocks and tablets, but they’re huge and all cold press, so I wanted to try the smoother hot press paper (without spending a huge amount of money on something I’ve never tried and may not like). Oh, yeah, guess who has a new “thing” in her life. It’s me. I have a new thing. It’s watercolor painting. It’s what my mom did and I totally see why. Watercolor is awesome.

After that, we hit a bookstore where I found another watercolor tutorial-type book in a slightly different style (and it was on sale, too!). I’m rather proud of myself for getting out of both stores for less than $40. It was a great break, but unfortunately it was time to head home. The last thing I wanted was to be on the road after dark, because deer and elk like to come out to play and none of them are afraid of little hybrid cars. I, however, am afraid of wildlife on the road, even though my car is probably small enough to zip right under most elk. Not even blasting a Nightwish CD would faze a gang of elk wandering across the road. Especially when it’s coming out of a Prius. Seriously.

(Funny aside, when I bought the car, my dad was worried that I’d get a speeding ticket, because “cops know people who drive red cars are always speeding.” I said, “It’s a Prius, Pop. The only way I could get going fast enough to get a ticket is if I was going down hill, with a tailwind.” After he saw the car, he agreed there was nothing to fear. Elk know this, too).

Anyway, I was about 10 miles from home when there was a “ding” that didn’t come from the CD, it came from my car. I had no idea what the hell was happening, until I noticed the fuel light was BLINKING! That’s an “aw shit” moment, if ever there is one. And a well-deserved “I told you so” for the little voice in my head. The last time the “ding” happened in my current ride, I was very close to home, and a gas station. There is a readout on the dash that will tell me how many miles I have left on the tank, and that time, when I was within walking distance, it was going down to TOTALLY EMPTY super fast. Since I did not want to watch my fate approach me like that so far from home, I didn’t switch the readout to show me the bad news.

Memory finally served me, because several years ago I had read an article about hyper-miling. It’s a technique you can employ to extend your gas mileage. Slow down, don’t accelerate up hill, coast whenever possible, don’t rush up to stop signs, lots of ways to improve mileage. I tried it while I was driving my old Subaru (a five-speed darling that I miss to this day) I went from 23 mpg to 38 mpg on a trip to southern Oregon, so I know hyper-miling works, and I remember how to do it.

So I hyper-miled: I pulled over to let cars go around; I went slower up the hills; I coasted as much as I possibly could. As I was still several miles from home, I called Tammie with the bad news. Since we only have one working vehicle, and I was driving it, she called her son who was on standby with a gas can. According to my car, I was getting 56 mpg, but would that be enough?

Three miles away I could see the light at the intersection where there are two gas stations. So. Close. I coasted down the last hill, accelerated slowly (much to the annoyance of the person behind me who just wanted me to get the hell out of the way), and the gas station grew closer. This time the readout said I was up to 63 mpg.

Still, the light blinked faster.

Less than ½ a mile to go, nice level road, the electric motor kicked into give me some help, boosting my mpg up to 90.

¼ mile, I was able to pull off far enough off the pavement to let the cars behind me go around, then back onto the road I went, easing my way up to the 35 mph limit and crashing my mpg to 20 as I gained the speed limit.

I reached the intersection directly across from the gas station I’d been aiming for, but their fuel delivery truck was there and all the pumps were blocked off. I turned off the music so I could think.

The light blinked faster. I saw the other gas station, 100 yards across the street to my right. I took a chance and went for it. But the driveway had been reconfigured, and I had to go a little farther to reach the pumps and I still had to cross traffic. If I stalled now, I’d be in the middle of the road with oncoming vehicles and drivers around here aren’t all that kind to fools who run out of gas in the middle of everything.

As I waited, the engine stopped and I panicked. But then my brain said, “hey, it always does than when you’re stopped more than a couple seconds, remember? It’s a Prius! Prius play dead at stops.”

Oh, yeah.

Traffic cleared, I hit the accelerator, and zoom! I bounced into the driveway and up to the pump, cheering all the way. Until I saw the price of gas at that conveniently located station. Gadzooks! With no other choice, I put a couple gallons in, knowing that would be more than enough to get me home.

I was quite pleased with myself for making those thin fumes of fuel last the final miles. But next time, I’ll allow my paranoia to have its way and I’ll make sure I have enough gas to get home without playing will she, won’t she? with my car.

I don’t need that many gray hairs all at once.