My throat feels better. Time? No Flonase? I don't know. No snot, either. So confusing, but better.

A lot of flies got in the house this weekend. Bastards. The good news is that they are logy this time of year. The bad news is that they are a lot mushier, so when you whack them you have to hire FEMA to do the clean-up.

USPS didn't come today either, so I called the local office. I told the employee where I'm staying and she asked if the road is flooded. Yes, it was flooded both yesterday and today. I asked her to pull the package so I could pick it up tomorrow. FedEx Home delivered a package from Target to me today: the driver drove through the six inches of water. Tomorrow, the UPS driver will drive through the six inches of water to deliver a package from Staples to me. Tomorrow, I'll drive the Flying Couch through six inches of water to go to the Post Office.

I've had a spate of bad dreams lately. I blame the BBC. One wee-dark-hour last week, the BBC interviewed a doctor who is running an event in DC for Americans to experience what it is like to be a refugee. It starts with something like, "You have 30 seconds to grab five things from your home and leave. What are they?" I have two dogs who each weigh 21-25 pounds. The three of us need food, water, shelter (from heat, wind and rain), cash, medicine, a tool (like a jackknife or weatherman), a weapon (like a fucking big-ass gun), and a communication device which will fail if not charged: that's nine things if you count the two dogs and phone/charger as one each. I can't carry my dogs, so they have to walk. I could push them to five-six miles per day, but not for several days in a row. I can't carry the water, food, and shelter we need for multiple days. I don't even have a backpack in which I could attempt to carry them and/or our water, food and shelter. I would never abandon them. I would eat dog food to economize the items and weight, but at some point (if you're in Syria) someone is going to eat your dogs because you've run out of food, money, cell service, and bullets. So, I don't sleep well because every night there is a BBC report of a war or a flood or an earthquake, and my need to protect my dogs plays into my psyche, and I wake up to the same 30-seconds-five-things-scenario or worse. Fuck. I can't imagine a life like that (during my waking hours): but, now I understand the militia groups who bunker in the west. I may have to become one of them.

Google Calendar says that tomorrow is Election Day. According to Donald Trump (Alec Baldwin), November 35th is Election Day, not tomorrow. Election Day is the 8th of November. It is not the first Tuesday in November, it is the first Tuesday after the first Monday in November. Hey, Google, here's the code as written in layman's terms (via Excel) to decide if any day is Election Day: =IF(AND(Month=11,Day>1,Day<9,Weekday=3)=TRUE,"Election Day","")

​I hate Victoria's Secret (VSS), but I don't know where else to buy lingerie. I hate VSS because: one, it doesn't consistently offer its basic styles in basic colors; and, two, "free" ground shipping is a 10-day process. I also hate the United States Post Office (USPS). VSS and USPS work in collusion to make me WAIT for my purchases. To VSS I say, "Pick, pack and ship the orders within 48 hours of receiving them and use UPS ground. Charge a nominal $5 for the delivery. It is a want-it-need-it-have-to-have-it-now world, so get with the program."

To USPS, I say, "Privatize: you have a failed business model I'm tired of supporting with my tax dollars." If people live somewhere no one else lives then too bad: I don't want my tax dollars driving and flying their mail to them. Most first class mail can be delivered electronically, and if people don't have Internet access, then too bad: live within the grid or do without. UPS and FedEx figured out how to exploit the taxpayers' dollars by using USPS to deliver packages to their final rural destinations. I doubt USPS covers their costs in these relationships, just like I'm sure China Post didn't cut in USPS on the delivery I received from an Amazon purchase the other day. Today, specifically, I hate USPS because my VSS package has been out for delivery since 09:20 this morning and I haven't received it. No mail was delivered to this address today. The road was flooded (six inches per usual) in the pre-noon today, but the mail delivery has a wide daily delivery window. I drove the flooded road today in the Flying Couch to go to USPS to send Steve's iPhone chargers back to him. The Flying Couch and I didn't drown. The specific wording notwithstanding, let me remind USPS of this: "Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds." Fuck you, USPS. And, fuck you, VSS, too.

Yesterday I ate dinner before six. I don't remember the last time I ate dinner that early. Meredith, Tom, his husband Steve, and their Cockadoodle puppy Jake, spent Saturday afternoon and evening here. None of them seemed interested in having much for breakfast or brunch before they left at noon, so I was proportionately hungry by cocktail hour. I gave in, ate, watched two movies and went to bed by ten.

At five this morning I was Googling "sore throats" and local "doc-in-the-box" purveyors. I've had a sore throat since Wednesday, and it is neither better nor worse since it first presented itself. According to Google and me, I do not have strep throat or tonsillitis. I might have a cold without other symptoms, but that would be a new experience. I might be having an allergic reaction to something (I've had respiratory allergies, e.g. grass, trees, animal dander, etc. since I was a kid), but a sore throat has never been a symptom. In the wee, small hours of the morning, the sore throat is sleep-depriving; but, after I do my ablutions upon waking, it is almost imperceptible.

I mentioned my score throat to Jean yesterday. She brought up allergies and snoring as possible causes. I explained my allergy history then dismissed snoring as a cause because I've done it for years. I could tell that she didn't want to say how loudly I snore (having been my roommate in Patagonia), so I told her three anecdotes to relieve her of the burden: one, my father can sleep with his good ear down and still hear my snoring with his "deaf" ear; two, a woman with whom I traveled for work expressed her surprise that someone of my size (i.e. not a 300+ pound truck driver) could make so much noise; and, three, another woman with whom I traveled asked if she could go to sleep first because my snoring prevented hers. Yes, I snore like a mother fucker. Yes, I can replicate the horrible noise when I'm awake. Jean reverted to the allergy theory. I've stopped taking Flonase to see if it's preventing the other symptoms of a cold. Will I feel vindicated if I'm right, or just fucking horribly, miserably snotty? I’m probably just allergic to USPS.

I received an email today informing me that my current Obamacare health insurance policy won't be available next year. Terrific. I've had it since September 1st. Earlier this week, it was announced that the premiums for Obamacare are going up by 22% in 2017. So much for my brag about my less expensive, better Obamacare coverage.

​I'm not sure whether I've ever purchased the soundtrack to a musical, but I know I've never purchased the soundtrack to a musical I haven’t seen. The last musical I saw was "Wicked" with Kim and Kate, and I fell asleep (per usual) during the performance. I have nodded off on Broadway, at Carnegie Hall, and at the Lincoln Center, so it wasn't the fault of "Wicked" that I crashed: give me a couple glasses of wine, a darkened room, a chair against which I can rest my head, and I'm out. On Sunday, Kim, Kate and I were watching a variety of clips on YouTube, including James Corden's "Carpool Karaoke" with Lin-Manuel Miranda. I bought the two-volume "Hamilton" CD soundtrack on Amazon as we watched, and it arrived yesterday. I drove 50+ miles round-trip to Target in Dover this afternoon just so I could listen to it (OK, I needed to buy Crack). I'm going to buy Ron Chernow's Alexander Hamilton on which the musical is based, because Miranda's lyrics are so tight that I want to experience the vastness of language that he parsed.

Apparently, one cannot download a "Kindle" book from Amazon on one's iPad Pro. Apparently, one has to use one's non-iThing to complete the purchase, then sync the purchase on one’s Kindle iPad app. If I had to guess, this is the work of Amazon since Apple's iThings compete with the Kindles as e-readers. Regardless, this is the second time this week that I have had an Apple problem. My iPad Mini, all of four years old, doesn't support iOS 10, so iMessage and FaceTime no longer function on it. Dear Apple, it’s really shitty to obsolesce a device that young. Don't make me hate you like I hate Microsoft.

Yesterday, a friend was teasing me about whether I need to make reservations going forward or whether I can just wing it. He was teasing me because I'm a plan-and-execute girl.  He was teasing me about being me. Well, assuming I don't make any commitments to other people, and assuming that the better RV parks in the Southeast and South don't sell out during the Thanksgiving and Christmas holidays, I can wing it. Or, I can make holiday reservations, and wing the days in between them. Which is more important, acknowledging my need to plan or forcing myself to adapt to change while traveling? Maybe he has a point. Bastard. I told him it would be easier if I weren't a solo female traveler. The prospect of dry-camping (because there’s no room at the RV park) presents prospective safety issues. Having a guy (with a gun) with me would mitigate them considerably, but then I’d have a guy (with a gun) with me. I do have bear spray...

I bet I know what Hillary Clinton wants for her 69th birthday today. As a Republican (really, a Libertarian), I voted against Donald Trump when I filled out my absentee ballot last week. I told Kim and Kate last May that I think Clinton will win in a landslide. The summer months eroded my confidence in that prediction – not so much because of the email leaks, rather a fear that people either will write in or leave blank the ballot for President. Now, I’m more concerned that people may not vote at all assuming it's a fait accomplis. Here's to a clear majority, so that Donald Trump will have to concede with rapidity. I concede that I will miss Alec Baldwin's parody of Trump, but not enough for the latter to be President.

​Kim and Kate left yesterday for nine days. I rode north with them to Dover so I could drive the "Flying Couch" back to the beach house from the repair shop. Doing so served both them and me: they wouldn't have all three of their vehicles in Philadelphia, and I would have a car at my disposal. The "Flying Couch" is a 2002 Buick LeSabre which Kim inherited when his uncle died. The seat doesn't slide forward so if you have less than a 31" inseam, you can’t drive it. And, either it has no lights, or they're always on: at the risk of the former, I won't drive it at night.

It is odd to have a car at my disposal. It is also odd not to have a schedule. This summer I had advance reservations at every campsite, so I knew where I was going to be when for a period of three months. Each move involved a trip to the grocery store and other retailers from which I needed to procure goods I couldn't get from Amazon – things like plutonium. Now I don't know what to do: I could go to the grocery store today, but I don't need to go until tomorrow or Friday. I could go every day! But, I hate running errands and the grocery is 25 minutes from here. I am unused to such a dilemma.

I am also finding it odd to live in a house again. It occurred to me that I could become like the guy whose intent is to live on his boat during his divorce, but he never leaves the boat once the divorce is final. The truth is that I am an OCD nester: I need a home where everything has a place and everything is in its place. BOB serves that function, but in Kim and Kate's house my things are scattered all over my room. If I had a sewer hook-up, I'd move back into BOB just to put my things away. That being said, it's fabulous to have a washer and dryer, dishwasher, and garbage disposal again.

I applied for Unemployment two weeks ago. In retrospect, I was eligible to file in late August. I think I put off filing because I hoped I would get a job lined up for November. The job search process has been dismal. I suspect some executive recruiters think I fucked my career my jumping off the corporate hamster wheel 11 years ago, but I have been happier (and poorer) than my colleagues who remained on it. I couldn’t stand working for mean, greedy, stupid people. I couldn't stand the shamelessness of people who would say or do anything to get ahead. I couldn’t stand the nepotism, the sacred cows, and the fiefdoms. A couple of weeks ago I heard an excerpt from Margaret Heffernan's "Forget the Pecking Order at Work" TED Talk on Guy Raz's "TED Radio Hour." Every CEO should listen to her talk and then fire their "Super Chicken" executives. It's extraordinary how dysfunctional companies become as they grow in size: the CEO has his/her clique of groupies whose voices are the only ones heard; executives work for themselves and against their colleagues and the shareholders because they value their own political capital over the social capital required to collaborate; and, valuable employees are pushed out because they either shouldn't or don't want to be promoted. In the end, the customers and shareholders suffer as the company collectively pursues its "Game of Thrones" culture.

Unemployment requires that I look for work "at least three times per week on three or more different days." It requires a log of these efforts which can be requested for review of continued benefits eligibility. I wish that I'd kept a log from the beginning. I've applied for a lot of positions online, for some of which I have no record. I signed up for several job boards then removed my resume from them because I was getting calls for telemarketing jobs. I've uploaded my resume to the top executive recruiting companies, but I'm a square peg and they typically recycle the round ones. I've written letters to three executives asking that they hire me to be the SVP of New Business Development, and I included a specific business proposal in each. I've written to the CFO of a parent company asking that she waive the requirement to be a CPA for the VP of Finance and Administration position at a subsidiary. I really want to be the COO of $100M+ apparel wholesaler which I can help take vertical, but I've yet to see that position emerge online. The irony of Unemployment's job search requirements is that I had to stop looking for work yesterday so that I'd have something else to do today – like looking for work in the jewelry industry.
So, I'm going grocery shopping.

I went grocery shopping. The Flying Couch seat moved this morning. Perhaps it's because I hit the exit button on the seat memory program when I parked last night. The side mirrors are fucked up, however. Grocery shopping around here proved that I'm living in a food desert. Words like "organic," care free," and "grass fed" do not seem to exist at the local market. And, it didn't have the flavors of La Croix seltzer water I prefer, so I'm going to have to go to Target in Rehoboth. On the upside, there is a little liquor store next to the grocer. The guy who owns/manages it is a doll. He remembered me from May. I asked, "Can you order a couple of cases of wine for me, please?" He replied, "Sure, the Malbec?" There are three Bota Boxes in a case, and last May I would buy whatever he had. He started ordering an extra case for me each week for his Thursday delivery (so his other clients would also have something to drink). When I left last May, I stopped in and told him so he didn't overbuy for the next week.

I'm getting sick. Rats!

I took BOB to the doctor today. I had a list of his ailments, and I was told that if he needed parts or warranty work multiple visits may be required. I dropped him off at 08:00 and he was ready for pick-up by 09:30. Good or bad news? The voice mail message didn't say. It was good news! BOB doesn't have an electric tank water heater (although there is a rocker switch for one on the control panel); it turns out I HAVE to use a propane torch or long match to light the oven because BOB doesn't have an electric ignition; the bedroom light was wired incorrectly, so BOB didn't need a new switch; the noise the water pump makes is normal; the propane water heater had a little too much air flow; I asked for the sliders to be greased and for valve extenders to be inserted on the front tires. BOB cost me $83. Good BOB.

​I arrived at my parents' house on the 9th of October, a day before BOB was scheduled to have the chip in his windshield drilled and filled. I had his inspection scheduled for that afternoon, and the windshield chip would result in an automatic failure. The drill and fill went well, and it was completed in less than 30 minutes by a very nice Scottish lad. The afternoon inspection went like this: "The RV is new, right? The lights, horn and turning signals works, right?" I cited the mileage and proved the functionality of BOB's safety features. I was out of there in less than 20 minutes. Plan B was to establish residency in South Dakota where inspections aren't required, residency is established with one night's RV stay or hotel bill, and there is no state income tax. Plus, South Dakota is home to The Badlands, Wall Drug, The Black Hills, Sturgis, Deadwood, and Mt. Rushmore. Winner, winner, chicken dinner!

I left my parents' house the next day for a rendezvous with my possessions in storage in the Providence area. When I left Columbus last spring I couldn't transport everything back to Providence, so I left some things in Steve and Karen's basement. I extricated those en route east, kept what I need, and stored or gave away what I didn’t. I took one suit, one dress, a pair of dress shoes, and a winter coat in case I have to fly somewhere cold for an interview. I left my summer dresses behind, save two which are interview-friendly in warmer climates (plus two sweaters to wear with them). I ditched my non-athletic sandals, and picked up my Wellies. I decided that my go-forward look while traveling in BOB includes only white, navy, grey, and black tops, shirts and sweaters, so I gave away all of my other-color things and resupplied my new, narrowed uniform. I did keep my mandarin orange post card chinos from Sundance because I love color – I just don't like to manage it.

​If you want to wake up feeling stupid, listen to Krista Tippett host a conversation with David Brooks and E. J. Dionne for an "On Being" episode. I can't tell whether David Brooks is a Democrat or Republican, a Catholic or a Jew. He's either none of those, which means he lives in a political and religious vacuum, or all of them which means he lives in a political and religious primordial ooze. Or, I'm just an idiot.

Kate and Kate arrived at their beach house during cocktail hour last night. I made meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and French green beans for dinner. Kim had asked me on Thursday to record the new "Rocky Horror Picture Show" for them, and we turned it on after dinner. I'm not sure how long it was after "The Time Warp" song that I fell asleep, but I was awakened when Kate tossed a glass of red wine on me. Neither Oxi-Clean nor Totally Awesome remove red wine stains. Bleach does. I love bleach.

​I am here for an indeterminate period of time. Kim and Kate are leaving Tuesday for a week, and friends from Philadelphia are coming to spend the weekend with me. The following weekend is the World Champion Punkin Chunkin in Bridgeville, DE. No, I'm not kidding. It wasn't held in for the last two years because of an insurance issue. Kim and Kate have invited me to the Punkin Chunkin for years, but I have never been able to attend it. This year, I'm all in. This morning they suggested we take BOB, but at $260 for the weekend and untold potential damage to him, we'll take BAT - their Big Ass Truck. Yes, everything has to have a name.

We went to a brewery in Rehoboth Beach for lunch today because Kim read that they serve barbecued oysters. I don't eat bivalves, and I could live without ever having another beer. I like beer, but I love wine. I could also give up bourbon which is my spirit of choice, if I had to give up something I really like after I gave up beer. Giving up okra doesn't count, because no one likes okra. The brewery didn't have barbecued oysters. I had a grilled cheese with pesto and tomato (so, not a real grilled cheese) and two glasses of Carmenere.

This summer I applied online to be the CFO of a brewery based here in Delaware. I mentioned that beer is OK, but that I'm really a wino. I didn't get the job. CEO's don't understand that they need someone in the C-suite who doesn't drink the Kool-Aid or the beer. (Jim Jones wouldn't have hired me either, the fact that I was 13 notwithstanding.) I would never apply for a C-suite position at a winery because the product would present a conflict of interest to me – unless it is Gallo. I have my standards, low as they are.

This morning I applied for a job as a COO of a fledgling airline which flies (nowhere, yet) from Florida. I hate Florida: it smells like mold and every town is called DelBocaVista-something. It's flat, full of amusement parks, populated by transplants from other states, and has serious weather issues. That makes it the not-hot older sister of California which shares those downsides in addition to horrible traffic, unaffordable real estate, and no natural water supply (i.e. SoCal). But, California also has Shasta, Tahoe, Napa, Sonoma, San Francisco, the coast from Monterey to Oxnard, Yosemite, King's Canyon, Sequoia, Mammoth, Death Valley, Joshua Tree, Anzo-Borrego, and the Chocolate Mountains. I should work for Patagonia or the National Park Service in California as a matter of geography, but Yvon Chouinard (the founder of Patagonia) never answers my letters and the NPS uniform includes high-waisted pants which are completely unacceptable to me.

Kim and Kate's beach house is on a peninsula formed by the Murderkill River and the Delaware Bay. There are about 40 residences, most of which are seasonal, and some are abandoned. There are no commercial establishments. Only the full-time residents are here during the week this time of year.

​I was raised in the country by city kids who did not allow me to stay home alone overnight until I was 19 (a junior in college). Our home in Addison is on a hilltop, and every door and window could have been breached easily. Once, when I was 16, my father called me to say that two men had escaped from the Steuben County Jail, and they were reported to be in our area. He told me to lock the doors and stay away from the windows. I sat in my parents’ bedroom between the telephone and the closet where my father kept the guns he had inherited from his uncle who had been a priest. Previously, my father had told me that if I ever encountered an intruder in the house, I was to shoot him dead, and then put a round in the ceiling so I could claim that I had warned the potential assailant to leave. (Apparently the State of New York frowns upon the shooting death of mere trespassers.) I could see the driveway, garage, and front door from there, and I stayed put for over an hour until my father came home from his law office in the village two miles down the hill.

I do not like being alone overnight in the country. The doors to the beach house have electronic locks, but the locks on the deck doors and windows represent more of a time delay than a real barrier to entry for anyone who wants to get in the house. I always lock my bedroom door when I'm here alone just to make the bad guy work harder to get me. At some point during the blackest hours this morning, I became aware of an alarm sounding. I DO NOT get up in the dark to investigate anything other than why the smoke or carbon monoxide detectors are sounding off (because I'm not going to die unnecessarily). If a security alarm goes off, I'm staying put! According to the movies, whoever gets out of bed to investigate why the security alarm is sounding off gets wacked. Like I said, the bad guy has to work hard to get me: I'm not coming out of hiding.

When I was a kid my father tried to convince me that there is nothing in the dark that isn't there in daylight. Being a city kid, he was probably unaware of the activities of nocturnal animals. Regardless, I didn't buy it having played hide-and-go-seek in the dark. At 06h40, it was light enough for me to emerge from hiding (i.e. playing Sudoku in bed), so I sent a text to Kim and Kate to inquire about the beep-beep-beep sound. It seemed to be coming from the shack next door which they also own. Thirty minutes later I removed the failing battery from the smoke detector in the shack. When the batteries in the smoke detectors in my condo failed the sound was so shrill that I flew out of bed and climbed on a step stool to stop them. This detector really sounded like a temperature alarm on a wine refrigerator. If the smoke detectors in the beach house are the same, I'm going to have to choose between burning to death or getting wacked by the bad guy.

I didn't get to visit the new neighbor on Tuesday because I went to the Dienharts' house with my father, and we were there for two-and-a-half hours. We had cake, coffee, champagne, and conversation. My Jetta is garaged at the Dienharts' because my father would have had to have cleaned his garage for it to live there. I think the Dienharts have room for six cars or 47 SMART cars and an ATV in their garage. Technically, they are contemporaries of my parents, but Irmel is considerably younger than her husband and she makes action figures look lazy, so she feels like more of a peer to me. That being said, if she asked or told me to do something, I wouldn't hesitate to do it without question out of respect per se. When we arrived, she and her friends were making flower arrangements in scooped pumpkins. Before she could ask, explained that I don't do "arts and crafts" just so I didn't have to "respect" her as my parents’ friend. Phew! So, I sat inside with my father and Karl until they decided they wanted to go for a walk.

​I HATE the iOS 10.0.2 update: I can't type, and until this release Pages compensated for my lack of talent. Now I have to shift for "I" and add contraction/possessive marks. Bastards. My only hope is that Tim Cook failed to correct the pronunciation of Barbra Streisand's name per her request, and that another remedy will that AND reverse the lack of auto-correction.

I looked at the weather forecast yesterday morning when I awoke, and I decided to leave my parents' house in northeast Pennsylvania and head to Kim and Kate's beach house in Delaware a day early. The prospect of rain - breaking camp, driving in it, dumping my black tank, and setting up camp - is never appealing, and my early departure would avoid it. Kim and Kate, however, were en route north to their Philadelphia home as I headed to their “southern” home.

It took me almost three hours to move into their house, having lived in BOB continuously for 103 days. (It's not like I have luggage!) Today, I bathed BOB, bleached the sewer hoses and all things "poo," cleaned the storage bins, washed the "grass mat," and filled the fresh water tank with my new regulator, filter and hose. I had to replace my two perfectly good 25' hoses because my father drove over them and crushed their connection. He disconnected and moved my hose the first morning I was in his driveway when he left for the gym, but didn't do so on the second. Somehow, because I was not in BOB on the second morning, it was my fault that he drove over my hose. I stopped at True Value in Sayre on my way to Delaware and replaced the hose. I love True Value and Ace hardware stores – Home Depot and Lowe's, not so much. While I'm not a franchise fan, these smaller footprint stores really deliver “get” customer service for those of us who are neither commercial contractors nor big project DIYers.

In addition to BOB maintenance today, I cleaned my jewelry and colored my hair. My jewelry looks terrific but I bought the wrong color for my hair so it's a little dark. My eyebrows have reappeared, so that is a testament to how grey they are. I haven't had a haircut in three months. I either have that hip-skater-boy-grow-out look going on, or I look like an asshole. Probably, the latter, given I’m neither hip, nor a skater, nor a boy.

Ron & Liz met me in Albuquerque on the 30th of September, and we headed for Angel Fire, New Mexico the next morning. Of the 30 RV parks in which I stayed this summer, the one in Angel Fire is the best. I am abrogating my first criterion of shade trees because this park had everything else; and, in 10 years, the trees will be tall enough to provide shade. Each site has a concrete pad (therefore level) with ample grassy personal space on either side. The roads are paved, so there is no dust. It was OK to wash BOB because of the time of year, and the Wi-Fi was good (although it may not be when the park is at full capacity). There are eight high efficiency washers and dryers, but at $5/load they were the most expensive I had encountered. The staff was extremely courteous. The view from the park at 8,500 feet is of meadows and coniferous hills, including the Angel Fire ski resort. I could have ridden my bike to town, and I would have if I'd been there alone. There are no dumpsters: trash is retrieved from each site every morning. The bathrooms and showers are luxury hotel quality. Ron said they were nicer than his home's amenities. The shower building also contained a lovely lounge which it led to an outdoor hot tub and fire pit.

It was 24 degrees at seven our first morning in Angel Fire. It was so arid and sunny that it felt considerably warmer. Ron returned from the shower wearing just a t-shirt and shorts; he was dumbfounded by the low temperature and his comfort with it. Shortly after nine, a man approached BOB, and he said hello through the open cabin door. He apologized for interrupting our breakfast. At first I thought he was looking for our trash, but he said that he had seen the dogs, and that he and his wife were contemplating buying a Westie. I took the dogs outside and I spent more than half an hour answering his questions based on my 23 years of experience with the breed. His wife joined us and I offered to let them borrow the dogs at their leisure over the next couple of days. They said they'd like that (me, too!).

Two mornings later with coffee in hand, the dogs and I visited the couple in their fifth wheel. The dogs were thrilled to have carpeting and real furniture on which to play, and the couple got a big kick out of them. I sat on the floor and learned about their 40 years of camping and RVing, living all over the US and in Germany, his upbringing on an Indian reservation, and the pros of gun ownership. The next day, two other men stopped me to ask about the dogs: they were very popular in Angel Fire.

When I left Angel Fire on the 4th of October, it was 20 degrees. I drove to Wichita, St. Louis, and Columbus in each of the ensuing days, decreasing over 7,000 feet in elevation, and gaining 50 degrees of temperature. BOB killed every bug in Kansas. BOB got a new tire in Kansas, too. I spent two nights in Steve and Karen's driveway in Columbus, then yesterday I drove the final 400+ miles to my parents' house. Our friend Sarkis was visiting from Sacramento, and we had a dinner date last night at the Dienharts' – friends who live nearby.

​It was the first time in over four months that someone else had cooked dinner for me, and I had only gone out for dinner once during that time (with Kim and Kate). Irmel Dienhart opened a 1987 St. Emilion for me, and served it in a proper glass. (For reference, I drink Bota Box Malbec in a plastic vessel.) After dinner, Irmel opened a bottle of Cognac from 1909 – the year her father was born. She knew I would appreciate it. I don't remember the last time I had Cognac, but it was smooth and lovely, and it was sweet that she would share such a treasure.

I've been in Sedona for 48 hours. It started raining around 19:00 Tuesday, and it continued for most of yesterday. I was grateful. I put Jean in an Uber car at 04:30 Tuesday in Las Vegas, and commenced a cleaning fest inside BOB. I rolled out of town at 07:30, and proceeded to make eight stops before pulling into my RV site more than 10 hours later. Jean and I spent 19 days seeing five national parks, two state parks, and Las Vegas, covering at least 60 miles on foot. During those days, I squeezed in the requisite financial and BOB maintenance, one-click applied for a couple of jobs on ZipRecruiter, and otherwise shopped, prepped, cooked, ate, packed and unpacked food, eliminated, bathed, and did a lot of laundry. Red rock dirt does not leave your clothing. My white towels are ruined, but they're more than 10 years old. I'll pick up my other Restoration Hardware towels in Providence next month and proceed to ruin those, too – probably.

I completed about eight things on my list yesterday and added two for each one I completed. This morning's rain allowed me to whittle my list down to four big tasks, none of which I'll complete soon. This afternoon I treated myself to a "Pink Jeep" ride in Sedona. I think I did the same ride 15 years ago; it was certainly with the same company. I didn't take my camera because I have photo fatigue and because it was cloudy. I ended up taking a few photos with my iPhone because the weather cleared.

​I have to say that I was nonplussed by the experience. Although I dread any tour which involves children, the dad with his four kids provided a source of entertainment for me because the youngest child seemed likely either to jump out of the Jeep or off a rock during a photo-op. The other couple in our group seemed to be on their first trip west of the Connecticut, so that was charming. However, none of them engaged me, although my interrogatories were politely answered. The guide was one of those scripted know-it-alls with canned jokes who most tourists enjoy immensely. I am not one of those. As we embarked, I would have bet that the kids would be the downside to my enjoyment and the driver the upside, but I'd rather play with those kids than listen to our guide’s “pre-recorded” tour. That doesn't mean I'm available for babysitting.

Jean arrived at eight last night as we both expected. Dinner was a hit, and we crashed around eleven-thirty. She got a text at six, and I got a phone call shortly thereafter, so we dragged ourselves out of bed at six-thirty. She went to get ice at the RV park's office this morning, and came back with an offer by a septuagenarian to take either of us Jeeping this afternoon at four for free. He said he couldn't charge for liability reasons. Jean thought I should go.

​We left the Arches National Park visitors' center a little after ten this morning. We walked Park Avenue – a two mile round-trip. It was shady and cool, so we didn't take water but I think that was a mistake for me. Park Avenue is pretty spectacular and it's the first walking path one encounters. It's easy to envision it the whole pathway as a river, given the floor of the avenue. We were so blown away by the scenery – The Courthouse, Balance Rock, etc. that by the time we got to Devil's Garden it was too late to start the four hour walk. We ate lunch in the car and drove back to Delicate Arch where we did the three mile out-and-back trail in the mid-afternoon sun and heat. There is nothing either technical or challenging regarding the walk until the end – if you have a fear of heights and you want the "money shot."

I was dead-tired when we returned from Arches at a little after four. Jean said she should check in with Tom (the septuagenarian) regarding the Jeep ride, since she had made a quasi-commitment for me to go with him. I said I didn't want to go, but she should if she wanted to go (he could only take one of us). The RV park office directed her to his RV, and after a brief conversation, Jean returned to BOB, gathered her things, and walked to Tom's site. I caught up with her on my walk with the dogs, and Tom said he thought he could make room for both of us. I declined, desiring only a shower and some quiet time.

When Jean returned 3-and-1/2 hours later, she told me that Tom, the 77 year-old-blind-in-one-eye-nudist, hit on her a la "anything goes." It was Tom's wife who had suggested that he take Jean or me for a "free" ride that morning. What kind of people are they? Jean is big and strong enough to have cleaned Tom's clock, but I might have been in trouble. The lesson learned (once again): NOTHING is free.

At the restroom at Delicate Arch I read a sign which said, "If you feel tired, cranky or have a headache, drink water and you'll feel better.' Apparently, it's about the effects of dehydration and how to cure it. But, what if you're going through menopause? You have those symptoms most of the time, but the cure is to drink massive amounts of alcohol (instead of water), which might make you feel better and certainly won't make you feel worse (immediately).

I’m in Moab, Utah. This morning I made mashed potatoes and meatloaf for dinner tonight. It's so hot here in the afternoon that I couldn't bear the thought of slaving over the oven and stove even with the AC running. Because I only have three gas burners and limited working space, I have to make dishes sequentially. The mashed potatoes took longer than I expected, so I'm glad to have that behind me. Why am I making a winter meal in 90+ degree weather? To satisfy a craving. I made meatloaf earlier this summer, but six servings were three too many for me. I've held off making it again until I have someone to share it with: Jean is arriving tonight.

​We are going to tour Arches and Canyonlands National Parks over the next five days, and we may do one or more of the following activities: ballooning, skydiving, paragliding, flying privately in a helicopter or plane, Jeep touring, Jett-boating, or stand-up paddle boarding. I'll let her pick: I can't wait to see what we do!

When I picked up my clothes from the tailor this morning, I asked him whether people bring him dirty clothes. "Yes," he moaned. He said they have a washer and dryer and they will wash anything they deem dirty that is machine washable. He said he's been given pajama bottoms to re-sew complete with skid marks. The two pairs of pants and dress I gave him were clean. I told him that I would re-wash all of them before I wore them because they may have touched other people's clothes. He wasn't offended by my comment, and nodded accordingly. We agreed that he knows too much about the dirty side of humanity. Yuck. For once I’m grateful that I can’t sew.

​The tailor opened at nine this morning but Google listed his opening at ten. I delayed my departure from Durango to arrive at his door just before he opened only to discover that Google is wrong. He said his hours have been the same for over twenty years, he doesn't know the source of the Google input, and he doesn't know how to change it. I suggested he "claim this business," but he's not a techie, and I don't know if that will work. On a positive note, I told for him that if it weren't for Google, I wouldn't have found him.

One off my friends posted something on Facebook last week regarding the number of states to which the typical American has been. It is eight. My prior Westie littermates, Chloe and Duncan, went to all but Alaska, Hawaii and Alabama. They did forty-six by car, and Florida by air. By the time Addison and Jasper get back to my parents' house in October, they will have been to 35 states. I had been to all of them by 2005 through a combination of vacations, cross-country trips, and work trips. I've spent the night in every state except Alabama and Mississippi. I'll have to rectify that this winter.

I had no interesting conversations in the Durango RV park. If I hadn't had the car for five days I would have rated the experience worse than Park City. I could have ridden my bike into town, if I was willing to cross a four-lane highway and ride in the shoulder while vehicles passed me doing 55+mph, but I wasn't. Without the car, I would have been trapped here with a bike, whereas in Park City, I wouldn't have been trapped if I had the bike. Choosing RV parks sight unseen has its perils, positive reviews and ratings notwithstanding, when one doesn’t have a car.

"Hi, honey. How was your day?" I don't fucking care. What I want is for you to listen to my day: I returned the rental car; flushed the black tank; bathed the dogs; did five loads of laundry; cleaned BOB; canceled an insurance policy; booked my parents a hotel in Baltimore for my mother's surgical consultation; transferred, edited, synced, and uploaded some photos to DropBox and FaceBook; ironed three sweaters, three linen shirts, and four pairs of trousers; colored my hair; traded mutual funds; downloaded various financial statements; and, packed up for my departure tomorrow. If you're a guy, a woman will want you to listen to this kind of diatribe. You should do it quietly while making her a drink and then say, "Wow, honey, wow!" It doesn't matter what your day was like, even if your testicles spontaneously combusted at noon. When women have crazy-ass-get-shit-done days like this, you should just listen, because it's not a conversation, and she needed that drink at nine.

Yesterday, I took the Durango & Silverton Narrow Gauge Railroad round-trip. I booked the most expensive seat offered which meant I had a window to myself, the same seat in both directions (so I had both views), a hostess-tour guide, complimentary non-alcoholic beverages and banana bread, and the rear platform for my non-seated viewing pleasure. Our hostess-tour guide talked too much and had a loud, annoying laugh which I tried to ignore. I bought a geology map and an Irish coffee from her, and hoped that she didn’t find the transactions humorous.

My opposing seat mate is a long-term US resident from Latvia. She was traveling with sisters who are from Riga. When I asked her where she is from, she politely scolded me by asking, "Do you mean where do I live, or from where is my accent?" How do you ask that question without offending a potential emigre? Do you say, "Clearly English isn't your first language, so what is?" and, risk a different offense? I don’t work for the INS; I'm just curious about people from outside the US.

Our hostess-tour guide asked the 16 of us not to discuss politics during her pre-departure safety warning. She said that two couples had succumbed to blows regarding such earlier in the season, and that the steward had to break up the fight. My seat mate and I smiled at each other and rolled our eyes.

My seat mate was very, very interesting, and very, very bright. It was lovely to converse with her over a variety of topics. She was traveling with a friend of forty years and that woman's sister. I shared my Art Nouveau photos of Riga with them, and spoke to her about my Baltics tour three years ago. When the history of politics in Latvia became a topic and she looked askance, I reminded her that our hostess-tour guide implied caution only regarding current US politics.

I spent the entire three-and-a-half hour return trip on the rear platform because the weather had improved, the opportunity for photographs had improved, and I had started to feel a little motion-sickness sitting inside. My seat mate's friend joined me for a while. We chatted about where we both had traveled in the US and Europe, where we wanted to go, and then she said to me, "You are not a typical American." I know! She said that because I've been to Romania, because I want to go to Albania and the other Balkans, because I want to go to Bulgaria, Moldova, Belarus, Ukraine, and the "’Stans," because I'll drive a car anywhere, and, because I live in an RV.

A few years ago I had dinner with an acquaintance and her very successful boyfriend (now husband). During the meal, he said to me, "You have an interesting mind." Right: I am not a conventional thinker, and I am not a typical American, and I am just fucking scary to (almost) everyone. When I was in business school I wanted to work for one of those branded consulting firms which the Fortune 100 hires to do "magic." But, the problem for me with those firms is that they are like the military: this is our mission, and these are our rules and thoughts. (The problem for the client is that they get the 80-20 solution which means they jam 80 pounds of shit into a 20 pound sack.)

My father went to the Naval Academy, so I grew up in a command-and-control environment. His usual answer to my challenge of his directive was, "Because I said so," which triggered a visceral response from me of, "Why?" No, you don't have to reinvent the wheel, but you also don't have to keep pushing it yourself. Smart people like me from the “outside” can ask questions and learn at a rate which benefits the employer, but most employers and executive recruiters look for the "usual suspects." It's very discouraging that people are afraid of difference and challenge. I am the square peg and everyone looking to fill a round whole.

I drove from Durango through Silverton to Ouray and back today. I have now driven the Million Dollar Highway four times (twice in each direction). There wasn't a cloud in the sky today, nor was there any snow on the mountains, which made the photography less interesting. Heading south from Ouray to Silverton on US Rte. 550 was scary the second time, too. I really don't know if I could handle it in BOB. The road is shoulderless in places with sheer drops. There was a lot of traffic, and more than one vehicle descending northbound into Ouray crossed the centerline when passing me. There are places in which the asphalt is crumbling, buckled, or has holes along the white line, so moving to the right is dodgy. I pulled over on a small gravel turnout to photograph an example of the sheer drop, but I couldn't get out of the car: I was too afraid to get closer to it. At a larger turnout, I took a picture of a hole under the white line.

I love the Red Mountain, a triple-peaked caldera with elevations from 12,225 to 12,896 feet. I'd really love to see it from the sky. Although the highway makes me remind myself that I have to use the gas pedal as well as the brake, it is one of the most beautiful places I've been in the US. I stopped at the Red Mountain lookout twice today. If I lived in Montrose, Ouray, Silverton or Durango, I'd drive US Rte. 550 as often as possible.

I had a Reuben at the Grand Restaurant and Saloon in Silverton. It arrived five minutes after I ordered it at the bar. It was fine, although the Thousand Island dressing was weak. I walked around town for a bit, then I went to the Durango-Silverton RR to photograph the train. I'm taking it tomorrow, but I don't trust the forecast (which has varied from sunny to thunderstorms over the last week), so I photographed it today. I walked back to the Camaro which was across the street from the train's terminus, and a Spanish-speaking man in his Harley costume said to me, "Good auto!" and grinned. Then he said, "Knight Rider," which made me eject my tonsils in one giant laugh. I never watched the show, but I think the car was a black Pontiac Trans Am as opposed to a navy Camaro. I felt like handing the guy my keys.

The RV park is half-empty, yet I can't sustain their Wi-Fi connection. They must be speed-limiting me after my DropBox download coup the other day. Verizon has me in safety mode, and my Jetpack's signal doesn't even appear as an option. So, safety mode means jammed signal. Interesting. Next time, I won't disconnect from the device and see how slow it really is. Fuckers: they make me like AT&T – as much as one can like AT&T.

​My father sent me an email today telling me that my mother is experiencing breathing difficulties during the night. He wanted me to ask Jean whether they should get an oxygen system or whether he should brush up on doing tracheotomies. My father had never done a tracheotomy because he was a lawyer, not a doctor, although the latter is his new hobby. He won't give me intellectual property advice because that wasn't his specialty, but he's willing to do a tracheotomy on my mother from a DIY manual. Forget that he has the patience and finesse of a three year-old. My mother has an enlarged hiatal hernia which has probably been causing her cough and breathing difficulties. Jean said she should she see her practitioner. What a good idea! I relayed the information. The truth is, my father doesn't want my mother to die, and he is willing to anything to save her. He just wants someone to tell him what he can do. Fortunately, my mother has a surgical consultation regarding the hernia; my father wants to make sure she lives long enough to resolve the problem.

"Hi, honey. How was your day?" I don't fucking care. What I want is for you to listen to my day: I returned the rental car; flushed the black tank; bathed the dogs; did five loads of laundry; cleaned BOB; canceled an insurance policy; booked my parents a hotel in Baltimore for my mother's surgical consultation; transferred, edited, synced, and uploaded some photos to DropBox and FaceBook; ironed three sweaters, three linen shirts, and four pairs of trousers; colored my hair; traded mutual funds; downloaded various financial statements; and, packed up for my departure tomorrow. If you're a guy, a woman will want you to listen to this kind of diatribe. You should do it quietly while making her a drink and then say, "Wow, honey, wow!" It doesn't matter what your day was like, even if your testicles spontaneously combusted at noon. When women have crazy-ass-get-shit-done days like this, you should just listen, because it's not a conversation, and she needed that drink at nine.

​Yesterday, I took the Durango & Silverton Narrow Gauge Railroad round-trip. I booked the most expensive seat offered which meant I had a window to myself, the same seat in both directions (so I had both views), a hostess-tour guide, complimentary non-alcoholic beverages and banana bread, and the rear platform for my non-seated viewing pleasure. Our hostess-tour guide talked too much and had a loud, annoying laugh which I tried to ignore. I bought a geology map and an Irish coffee from her, and hoped that she didn’t find the transactions humorous.

My opposing seat mate was a long-term US resident from Latvia. She was traveling with sisters who are from Riga. When I asked her where she is from, she politely scolded me by asking, "Do you mean where do I live, or from where is my accent?" How do you ask that question without offending a potential emigre? Do you say, "Clearly English isn't your first language, so what is?" and, risk a different offense? I don’t work for the INS; I'm just curious about people from outside the US.

Our hostess-tour guide asked the 16 of us not to discuss politics during her pre-departure safety warning. She said that two couples had succumbed to blows regarding such earlier in the season, and that the steward had to break up the fight. My seat mate and I smiled at each other and rolled our eyes.

My seat mate was very, very interesting, and very, very bright. It was lovely to converse with her over a variety of topics. She was traveling with a friend of forty years and that woman's sister. I shared my Art Nouveau photos of Riga with them, and spoke to her about my Baltics tour three years ago. When the history of politics in Latvia became a topic and she looked askance, I reminded her that our hostess-tour guide implied caution only regarding current US politics.

I spent the entire three-and-a-half hour return trip on the rear platform because the weather had improved, the opportunity for photographs had improved, and I had started to feel a little motion-sickness sitting inside. My seat mate's friend joined me for a while. We chatted about where we both had traveled in the US and Europe, where we wanted to go, and then she said to me, "You are not a typical American." I know! She said that because I've been to Romania, because I want to go to Albania and the other Balkans, because I want to go to Bulgaria, Moldova, Belarus, Ukraine, and the "’Stans," because I'll drive a car anywhere, and, because I live in an RV.

A few years ago I had dinner with an acquaintance and her very successful boyfriend (now husband). During the meal, he said to me, "You have an interesting mind." Right: I am not a conventional thinker, and I am not a typical American, and I am just fucking scary to (almost) everyone. When I was in business school I wanted to work for one of those branded consulting firms which the Fortune 100 hires to do "magic." But, the problem for me with those firms is that they are like the military: this is our mission, and these are our rules and thoughts. (The problem for the client is that they get the 80-20 solution which means they jam 80 pounds of shit into a 20 pound sack.)

My father went to the Naval Academy, so I grew up in a command-and-control environment. His usual answer to my challenge of his directive was, "Because I said so," which triggered a visceral response from me of, "Why?" No, you don't have to reinvent the wheel, but you also don't have to keep pushing it yourself. Smart people like me from the “outside” can ask questions and learn at a rate which benefits the employer, but most employers and executive recruiters look for the "usual suspects." It's very discouraging that people are afraid of difference and challenge. I am the square peg and everyone looking to fill a round whole.