A guy from Enterprise picked me up at nine this morning. The young agent at the Enterprise counter said he liked my shoes. Sigh. They are eight-or-more-year-old Cole Haan “Country” cordovan-colored driving moccasins which are no longer in production. I showed him the holes in the toes, and he liked them more. (These are my people here: they appreciate simple, classic, unbranded, well-constructed apparel and accessory items. My uniform works here!) Last year, I had to throw out my black “Country” shoes, and I hate the Cole Haan “Grant” substitutes I purchased. I have resisted replacing this pair because I can't find the color.
I was en route to downtown Charleston by nine-thirty. En route, that is, in yet another dirty rental car without washer fluid. The front and rear windows were filmy, and there were crumbs in the gear shift box. The gas tank was five-sixteenths full –another odd hallmark of the off-airport, predominantly insurance-based Enterprise rentals. I guess for $42.99/day I shouldn't expect a clean vehicle with fluids and a full tank. I scored “rock star” parking on State Street between Chambers and Broad. The meter was jammed, and a passerby assured me that I wouldn't get a ticket. I fiddled with the meter for a few minutes because it would have been more satisfying to me to un-jam it than to get free parking, but I didn't have my Swiss army knife with me and I'm no McGiver. I walked the city for an hour-and-a-half rediscovering sites I saw and restaurants in which I ate when I was here in August and October of 2008. I was struck by the number of places undergoing gut renovations and tortured myself by trying to pick a house to buy (other than the Calhoun Mansion) if money were no object. If or when money becomes no object, I'll really torture a realtor to help figure that out. I went into the Ben Silver store having only ever seen the catalogue. It is a nonpareil men's haberdashery. I picked out my new François Pinton eyeglass frames (which I might buy when need a new prescription) and a pair of RM Williams boots (which I will buy when I get a job). If I had purchased both of them today they would have set me back a grand. I thought that imprudent, so I went to lunch (which was somewhat less than a grand). I had made an early reservation for lunch because I had a two o'clock appointment with a dentist on the RV park's side of the Ashley River. I ate at the bar, and I was finished by twelve-thirty. Since I had the time, I went in search of my parents' house from 1963. I have pretty good visual memory, so I remembered the neighborhood and the look of the place, but I didn't know the street address. I was running out of time, so I called home and my mother could only remember the name of the street on which we lived in Key West. My father called me back a few minutes later (which was too late), and gave me the address. I'll find it tomorrow. I went to Goodwill en route to the dentist to donate the three pairs of jeans. I still arrived earlier than I needed at the dentist's office, so I read People magazine articles about “famous” strangers while I waited. The dental hygienist said my teeth were the easiest she'd had to clean that day. Perhaps I should have left the arugula and pecans in them from lunch just to make her work for her money. I reluctantly subjected myself to a round of annual bite-wing x-rays which I find more unpleasant than having a filling replaced. Having my teeth cleaned is like a massage for my mouth. The dentist gave me the most thorough consultation I have ever had, and I told him so. He knew I was just passing through town, so he wasn’t be thorough just to secure my future business. The hygienist said the nail salon around the corner was "OK," so I went there for a manicure, pedicure and eyebrow wax. The pedi I had in Polson, MT, is still the worst I've ever had, followed by the pedi I had at my mother's salon, followed by this one. The salons I frequented in Huntington Beach, CA, where I started partaking in these girly maintenance programs in the early Oughts, were inexpensive and thorough. They set the bar, but, my salon in Rhode Island remains the best I've experienced. When I took off my shoes for my pedicure I realized two things: one, my toes had sock jam; and, two my socks were filthy because my shoes have holes. I did yet another exhaustive internet search for the “Country” mocs to no avail, so I bought a pair of Cole Haan “Trillby” driving moccasins (which are also discontinued). They are "brown." They'll be here tomorrow. It was 36 degrees last night, so I let the dogs sleep taco-style with me again. Tonight will be the same, then it will get warmer. Tomorrow, I have to move to a site without a sewer hook-up , so I'll have to dump and flush the tank in the morning before I move. Then, I'll go back to Charleston, rent a bike, have lunch, and return to BOB.
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I had an incredibly productive day after a night of agita. Had I locked the cockpit doors? Where could I go over the holiday if I didn't want to stay here? Where is my Uniqlo package, and can I change the delivery address if it hasn't shipped yet? I have to cancel my term life insurance in the morning. What if Uber fails me or is super-expensive? Is there an Enterprise-Rent-a-Car nearby? Do Kim and Kate want to come for Thanksgiving? I have to change my parents' hotel reservations in Baltimore for next month. Why did my health insurance company bill me for part of my lab work?
I knew it was going to be in the mid-thirties last night, so I put a polar fleece blanket on my bed and put the dogs on top of it on my right side. I folded the blanket over them, making them a taco (or omelet), and they didn't move all night. When I woke with agita at four-something, I played Sudoku and went back to sleep. I didn't get out of bed until eight. It was 47 degrees inside BOB. The dogs didn't move when I exited. The cockpit doors weren't locked because I had intended to vacuum it. I found another RV park south of here, but it couldn't accommodate me. Uniqlo said my package was delivered Friday. I cancelled my term life insurance, and lowered the bill on my car insurance. There is an Enterprise 3.6 miles from here, it does pick-up/drop-off, and there is a car for me. Kim and Kate have plans for Thanksgiving. I changed my parents' hotel reservations to make them pay for their room at $107/night to save my points for when the rate goes back to $300/night. There was a co-insurance on my lab work. I have the car for only 36 hours, since the satellite Enterprise location is closed from Thursday through Sunday – the day I plan to drive to Jekyll Island. I made lunch reservations at restaurants in Charleston for tomorrow and Wednesday. I have a dentist appointment tomorrow at two. I know where I can park in Charleston, I know where I can rent a bike, and I found a tour in which I'm interested. I found a Goodwill location to dump the three pairs of jeans I replaced yesterday. I jumped rope and lifted weights this morning: ten sets of 50 jumps combined with 20 sets of 10-pound arm, back, shoulder lifts. I walked three miles to do two loads of laundry. I spoke with strangers. I wrote letters to two more companies which won't acknowledge their receipts. And, I wonder why I wake in the middle of the night with agita. Kim and Kate have a SNAFU: their Miami Beach rental has fallen through, and they want to know what I’ doing for the first two weeks in December. Uh, well, I planned to go to Austin, but I have no reservations. Here I am in Charleston, which I love, but I can't really access the city without Uber or a rental car. The same will be true in Austin. I anticipated both. Yesterday, when I arrived here, part of me wished I'd stayed on Emerald Isle: while the cycling wasn't exciting, I could cycle for both pleasure and groceries without risking my life. I can't do that here and I probably won't be able to in Austin either. I should find a beach community with a grocery store and camp there. I never would have thought that I might voluntarily spend time in "God's Waiting Room," but Florida may be my winter residence. I got up at six and left Emerald Isle around seven-thirty. For the second departure in a row, Addison, my fearless-uber-alpha-girl-dog, shivered on top of the ottoman as we rolled down the road. She's wasn't cold, so she must have been scared, but I can't figure out why. She's been docile (but not needy) since we arrived; uncharacteristically, she hasn't chased Jasper off my lap. Dog psychology...bark, bark.
How long is the media going to discuss the election? Donald J. Trump won. Fake news on FaceBook and Russian hacking didn't swing the election: Trump did. Trumps did what I do: if I don't like the game, or if its rules are flexible, I change the game or flex the rules. That's how you win. If it isn't forbidden by law or ethics, it can be done. Releasing tax returns and behaving like a gentle person are not laws, they are election conventions. Both Trump and Clinton had legal problems during the election which should have made them both questionable candidates, but Trump's were outside "the swamp" and America wanted it drained: Clinton was in the flush. It's getting boring, America: move on. Now, the only thing that matters is the cabinet appointments. I listened to Kurt Andersen of “Studio 360” interview Josh Katz about his "How Y’all, Youse and You Guys Talk" quiz. It was in the New York Times three years ago, and now he’s written a book about it. The quiz is 25 questions which have sufficient regional variance among them that from the answers he can calculate any person's likely US origin (he's an actuary by training). I was born in Key West, left there for Philadelphia when I was two-and-a half where I attended nursery school and kindergarten, then I moved to rural Upstate New York. Save a year in school in England at 14, I lived in New York State for the entirety of my grade-school, high-school, college, and graduate school years. My mother was born in Halifax, but she was raised in various places in Canada. My father was born and raised in Philadelphia. There is nothing about my mother's speech pattern which would indicate her origin, but if you ask my father to say "water" you'll know he's from Philly in a New York minute. I didn't pick up the Upstate New York nasal twang probably because my parents weren't natives. I took Josh's 25 question quiz twice tonight, and my answers suggested that I am from somewhere in the Northeast megalopolis. Changing answers from one attempt to another will vary the questions which ensue. Again, the quiz attempts to pinpoints one’s origin based on vocabulary not accent. My dad is going to get nailed on "hoagie.” Kurt Andersen went on to do a piece about how the Boston accent is the Waterloo of actors because very few can do it well. Having lived in Rhode Island and worked in Massachusetts for a decade, I called the area the "Land of Misplaced R's." If your name is Linda, it's pronounced Linder, and if your name is Tyler, it's pronounced Tyla, i.e. if it ends in an "r" you drop it, and if it ends in a vowel you add an “r.” People from the area who have overcome this speech habit slip right back into it upon the consumption of alcohol. I just called my father to ask him if he is watching the Eagles lose. He said it was a foregone conclusion so he turned it off. He said the Katz quiz kept erroring-out on him. He said he'd try out again, but he agreed he'd get nailed for "hoagie." He also agreed that I didn't have a regional accent. The real reason I called my father was to ask him the exact dates he and my mother lived in Charleston. I was born in December of 1964, so I wondered whether I was conceived here. He said they lived here in the summer of 1963, and again in January-February of 1964. I was looking for a personal nexus to Charleston, but alas I have none. This morning, I took the dogs to the beach again. I let go of their check cords immediately. They followed me. They didn't play. They didn't chase birds. When I reversed course, they lain in the sand. Were they bored or tired? It was probably the latter since our beach walk the day before was as far as they've walked in a while.
As I was packing up BOB - filling the water tank, stowing the hose, mat, bike, folding chair, etc. - a couple stopped by to pet Addison and Jasper. They are THE couple with the four Westies! Their dogs are unrelated, and they range in age from nine to 14. Sometimes I think that two Westies are two too many, any they know that four are too many. But, I could tell they would have more! Their son has two Westies and their daughter has one, so they have seven when the family convenes. Now, that is a Westie Festie! I'm giving Chris Thile another chance tonight. This afternoon, I mailed letters to the CEOs or the senior-most HR people at five companies which make and or sell shit I like. I rode my bike over three miles to mail them at the post office where they will lay dormant until four Monday afternoon. I doubt my old-school-cover-letter-resume-snail-mail will produce fruit, but until I get another idea, I'll keep doing the same. Kim sent me a text this morning saying that their Miami condo had fallen through, and he asked what am I doing after we meet on Jekyll Island. I said that I planned to head across the Gulf Coast en route to Austin, but that I hadn't booked anything yet. They fly to St. Lucia from Miami on the 14th of December, so I predict that I will be spending the first two weeks of December in Florida with them. I should probably join a senior dating service while I'm there, since the transience of my stay equals the pool's life expectancy. Austin, I'll see you in the New Year. The music is better on "A Prairie Home Companion" since Thile took over, but that is Thile's layup move. The couple across the road from me have been fishing since they arrived. They have a bossy Chihuahua and a five-month-old Labrador-Shepherd-TBD mutt who is adorable and will be huge. They told me yesterday that they were fishing for puffers which have melt-in-your-mouth filets. They said if they caught enough they'd give me some. Uh, yum? My understanding is that seagulls are garbage cans, so why don't they eat the dead puffers on the beach? It's because they know better! If a dog or a seagull won't eat it, it's because it's either lethal or it's a vegetable, or, better yet, they can't tell the difference because to them they are the same. I saw a couple walk by BOB with four Westies. My instinct was to jump up and run after them, but I'm sure I'll see them tomorrow. More people have arrived at the park for the weekend, but the place is hardly filled. It's a giant rectangle with park models flanking the long sides, and those people aren't here.
I gave BOB a bath this morning, then I Rain-Exed his windows and Armour-Alled his rubber and plastic bits and pieces. I checked the hot water hose leak, and it seems to have been mitigated. Instead of scraping off the Lexel, I added more and gave it 10+ hours to cure. I cleaned my drains with baking soda, vinegar, and hot water. I also cleaned my shower which is difficult because it's so small. I need a Scotch-Brite body suit so I can just turn around a few times and get the job done. I think I inhaled a toxic amount of Totally Awesome in the process. After I finished my chores, I went for a bike ride along the path in Emerald Isle. It was boring. At mile marker 18 (wherever that is), I jumped off and reversed course to ride along Ocean Drive. That was better – until it dead-ended – because the beach houses were more interesting than the whizzing traffic along the path. I returned to BOB, ate an apple, and looked for work. Later, I took the dogs for a walk on the wide beach. The waves were soft. Shrimpers were working off shore, and fishing enthusiasts trolled from the beach. Eventually, I let go of the dogs' check cords and let them run on the beach and in the water. I wore my Wellies so I wouldn't get sand in my pants or get them wet if I had to chase the dogs in the shallows. Addison drank enough ocean water that she'll either vomit later or firehouse it out of her ass tomorrow. I'm hoping for the latter. At beaches when they were puppies, they'd eat sand then shit sand plugs the next day. I can't imagine how that feels. Once, when Addison was a puppy, I pulled an entire Bounty paper towel sheet out of her ass; I can't imagine how that feels, either. The towel, its E-Coli contamination notwithstanding, was still usable upon emission, if one had been inclined to do so. It was 45 degrees here last night and the humidity was high enough that BOB got cold fast. I let the dogs sleep with me because I knew they'd be cold if I didn't. Jasper was smart enough to cuddle up next to my torso. I eventually moved Addison to my other side because she was shivering and I couldn't move my legs. She let me drag her like a dead dog, and as soon as she was near my upper body she dove under the sheets and threw her head across my belly. I expected that to trigger a hot flash, but it didn't. I didn't sleep very well, but they did. Sometimes, that it more important. I am really struggling with the doldrums of unemployment. I've applied for a plethora of VP of Finance and CFO jobs, but my resume doesn't fit the cookie-cutter skills or credentials which would make hiring me "safe." For me to land my dream COO job, it will take the miracle of the intersection of the right-sized company and an outside-the-box-thinker-searcher. That leaves out all the big recruiting firms, so I have systematically worked on finding the smaller ones who offer the ability for prospective candidates to upload their resumes. Sometimes I wonder whether I'll be living in BOB 20 years from now doing menial labor. I'm starting to come around Kim's idea of being the landlord of a triplex, but where? A college town in Ohio, perhaps? Hmm. Think outside the box. Think outside the box. I am making cheese-filled tortellini with a Gorgonzola cream sauce. I may die of atherosclerosis tonight. I set off the carbon monoxide detector while I was reducing the vermouth. The dogs usually freak at its noise, but this time they were just anxious and needed reassuring. Clearly, they think the cheese-filled tortellini with a gorgonzola cream sauce is going to kill them, too. My parents are in Baltimore. My father didn’t answer his cell phone tonight, and neither answered the hotel room phone. Two days ago my father called me to ask me about Uber. I told him that he needed a Smartphone to use the application, and that I can't order a car for him from my account when I am in a different place. Why is that? Whether you are a parent who wants to control a child's use of Uber (and not just pay for any trip AND STILL NOT KNOW WHERE YOUR KID IS WHEN), or whether you are the child of a parent who doesn't have/want a Smartphone, why can't you order a car for the relative who is not where you are? I would ask Uber, but there is no Uber number for such questions. I can, however, contact Uber if my driver has just raped or killed me: Uber HAS a number for that. My Gorgonzola sauce set off the carbon monoxide detector again, so I just ate it. Not the carbon monoxide detector, the sauce. The nutmeg counters the salty cheese in a fabulous way, but it really begs to be served over pumpkin ravioli. Parts of North Carolina Route 12 have to be plowed to remove the sand that blows onto it from the dunes on the ocean side of the road. I'm not sure I've ever seen sand plows, but I was certainly grateful that I didn't have to risk hitting a sand drift at speed. In addition to the sand drifts, getting to and from OBX involves a lot of bridges. I approach bridges with some trepidation since BOB is NOT aerodynamic. Having been moved out of my lane by the wind on Midwestern Interstates, I fear the same on bridges, and the consequences could be more dire.
I stopped at Ace Hardware in Manteo this morning. The gentleman who helped me recommended a putty in lieu of Lexel because it can handle the water pressure better. He said I needed to scrape off the Lexel I already applied to the hose junction. That will be challenging. I much prefer Ace and True Value to Home Depot and Lowe's because their footprints are smaller, and the service level is reminiscent of bygone mom-and-pop hardware stores. Tomorrow, I'll tackle that project. I'm now in Emerald Isle, North Carolina. En route, I spent a couple of hours in New Bern so I could buy groceries at Harris Teeter and go to Bank of America. Harris Teeter is a subsidiary of Kroger, and my first experience with it was terrific, albeit odd. Although most grocery stores stock goods similarly, there are always nuances both to their layouts and my particular shopping needs, such that it takes me twice the normal amount of time to shop. I had to ask an employee where I could find fresh pasta and he walked me to the cooler. I asked him if the store was always so crowded at one in the afternoon. He responded, "On Thursdays? Sure, it's Seniors Day!" I guess they get a discount on their purchases on Thursdays. Perhaps the chain is trying to keep them out of the store on the weekend when the working stiffs shop. Thank God it was not Singles Seniors Day! I entered my phone number (which is registered with Kroger) at the self-checkout station, and it wasn't recognized. I told the attendant that I have a Kroger card and she said, "Well, this is Harris Teeter." Right, I know. Why isn't my ID synchronized throughout the chain? Kroger, make it so. I called the RV Park on Emerald Isle from New Bern. The young man who answered the phone took my name, number, and RV type and size. He said I could pick a spot when I arrived. He called me "Ms. Knox." I love that because "Mrs. Knox" is my mother. When I checked in, his politeness and graciousness continued, which only made him more handsome if that is possible. (Southern women know how to raise their children. They should write a book on parenting, and Northerners should be forced to read it before they have children.) An hour and a half later, as I was walking my recycling to the bins a quarter of a mile from BOB, a foursome of employees stopped and offered to take it from me. They all smiled, said hello, and said they'd sort it for me. They are well-raised, well-trained young men who gave me back 20 minutes of my evening. Military planes are flying over me. I have not done anything to warrant the surveillance, yet. I put away my dry goods this afternoon after I set up camp and I realized that I'm hoarding Pomi strained tomatoes and Starbucks coffee. Kim and Kate live in a food desert in Delaware, and Jean and I experienced the same in Utah after we left Moab. OBX and Emerald Isle are similar. Neither Pomi nor Starbucks were on my list today, but I grabbed them because they're not always available. I resisted the urge to pick up some DeCecco pasta because I was pretty sure I had a box of fusilli. That was a good thing because I have two. I bought more Chobani key lime yogurt, too, although I already had enough to get me to Charleston. Other than milk, some lunch items, and some fresh vegetables, I have at least two weeks of dinner on board. I don't think I ever had that much food in my condo in Providence. I am NOT sleeping better. I spent over three hours on the phone last night: one with Jean, and over two with Scout. When I hung up at eleven, I binged-watched "[Insert Your Country Here]'s Got Talent" and when I looked up it was two-thirty. I walked the dogs, did my ablutions, went to bed, and fell asleep sometime after four. I got up at eight with a tiredness that made my head feel like it had been filled with cement.
I rode my bike to the Inn at Rodanthe which is the center point of the movie "Nights at Rodanthe," starring Diane Lane and Richard Gere, and based a Nicholas Sparks book. The movie was released in 2008, and the property was condemned in 2009. In 2010, it was privately purchased and moved off the beach to a safer location behind the dunes. It is no longer an inn: it's now a rental property within sight of two properties which are still on the beach. I'm happy that it has survived, but its change of location and change of business use make it different enough that its movie allure was mostly erased for me. I took the dogs for a walk on the beach today. I had check cords on them which were tied together, but I didn't let them go. I didn't want them to go in the ocean because I didn't want to deal with either the mess of wet, sandy dogs or the risk of the riptides. The beach is wide and there were few people on it. Two women asked me about the breed of the dogs – a common question given the way they are groomed. The dogs played in the hard sand. The shell fragments were varied but broken, not that BOB needs sea shells. I FaceTimed Jean so she could see the ocean from the shore of her “Rochester grey” Finger Lake cottage. The beach is lovely here, but while I don't want the endless fast-food-restaurant-strip-mall-Myrtle-Beach vacation, I would like a little "toy town" cuteness and some high-end restaurants in my vacation spots. Rodanthe has neither: come here for its quietude, and pack in your culinary and alcohol needs. The sink still leaks but not that much. Either the Lexel® is too old, or the source of the leak extends beyond my reach. I'll stop at the Ace on Roanoke Island on Thursday en route to Emerald Isle to buy more Lexel®.
A week ago, I made the decision to stop listening to the BBC Radio when I go to bed. It stands to reason that it was interfering with my sleep because it was on all night. I picked up the habit within the last three years when I would wake up in the middle of the night and remain awake for two to three hours. I figured that perhaps twenty minutes of BBC programming would exhaust me, and I then would return to sleep. I was wrong. "Hardtalk" is intellectual mixed martial arts, and therefore a form of torture to someone who is already psychotic from sleep deprivation. So, I learned the "hard" way to avoid the BBC at four in the morning. I am now "radio silent" until at least five in the morning. I am sleeping better. It stands to reason...like I said. For some inexplicable reason, I didn't check the forecast before I went to bed. If I had, I would have taken my drying rack and Wellies inside, and I would have covered my bike. Fortunately, my Wellies were relatively dry this morning, as was my bike which was sheltered under the rear slide-out. I don't leave the awning out at night in case the wind increases. My drying rack will dry, because that's what it does.
I was trapped inside BOB today due to the rain, so I colored my hair. It looks great, but four months without a cut is another thing. This is the longest I've gone without a haircut since I was a kid because my mother had a "no-split-ends" policy. I also took another stab at diagnosing the leak under the kitchen sink. When I arose this morning, I emptied the cabinet under the sink and removed the soaked microfiber cloth. I turned on the hot water heater and went back to bed to do Sudoku. The heating cycle per se produced no water in the cabinet, but doing the dishes did. Previously, when I ran the hot water faucet, I wasn’t really running HOT water because the water heater was off. When I crawled under the sink with the hot water heater on, and with the HOT water running, I discovered that the hot water input hose to the faucet was the source of the leak. I applied some Lexel(R) plastic sealant to the hose connection, so I believe the problem is solved. Camilla is starting a blog, and for her first piece she is interviewing women she knows by asking the following two questions: "1) What did you think it meant to be a woman when you were a little girl? 2) What does being a woman mean to you now?" Here are my answers: 1) My parents both had careers, and they both achieved advanced degrees after I was born. As both parents and professionals, I did not experience any difference in their genders. The shopping, cooking and housework were my mother's domain, and the maintenance of the house and yard were my father's. I guess they divided those duties via the conventional roles of wives and husbands in the 1970s, since neither of them had any specific experience with either. I experienced their division of labor as just that, and I was expected to help both of them. My parents expected me to go to college and to graduate school so that I could support myself as they had done. I expected that I would do those things, plus I expected that I would get married and have children. I guess the fact that women, not men, give birth is the only difference I perceived between the genders, and therefore, as a child, being a woman was defined by giving birth. 2) At 38 years old, I gave up trying to become pregnant. At nearly 42, I had a hysterectomy. Having a child defines one as a "mother," but if the mother doesn't feel maternal (or keep the child) what does it mean to her to be a mother? I don't know. Biology identifies gender (unless you are a hermaphrodite) and menses redefines a girl as a "woman," but does either the ability to reproduce or reproducing mean to her that she is a woman? I don't know. If menses is the common establishment of womanhood, does a hysterectomy or menopause remove it? I don't know. To me, the word "woman" only means that a female human being is post-menses. Period: period. I don't think of myself as a woman: I think of myself as a human being - psychologically, socially, intellectually, professionally, etc. Thanks to my mother's generation I have likely had professional opportunities I otherwise wouldn't have had, but in spite of their efforts I've probably been the victim of gender discrimination: if I have, I don't know. I'm also white, so if I've likely been the beneficiary of race discrimination: if I have, don't know. I'm just a human being who is white and female and assumed that neither of those things matter. When I'm older (or now) will I be the beneficiary or victim of age discrimination? I don't know. Right now, I am a 51-year-old person looking for a job which will benefit the company, the shareholders and me, and nothing other than my education and experience should matter. So, being a woman is nothing other than an age-defined biological construct to me. Gwen Ifill of "The PBS Newhour" died today from endometrial cancer. I discovered mine at Stage I. I'm OK. Why didn't she know when I did? The trailer dad seemed a little cool toward me yesterday in a way the others in his family didn’t. Yes, I did a “French leave,” i.e. I didn't say good-bye two days ago (while he was rigging the sheet for the movie). Yes, it was rude, but only because they’re not French.
I stopped for a propane top-off at the park before I left this morning. My next RV park doesn't have propane, so I deemed it prudent and expeditious to fill up before leaving (even though I would have to pay with my precious cash). The kid who did the fill-up liked the size of my RV. When I said it was good for one or two people, he replied, "I wouldn't want to travel with more than one other person, and I don't like traveling with my family." He went on to tell me that he had graduated from high school this summer, but added that he isn't old enough to travel by himself. He’s old enough to drive, marry, and die for his country. He’s old enough to smoke in most states. He’s not old enough to drink (21) in or rent a car (25) any state. So, in what regard is he NOT old enough to travel by himself? I wish I had asked that follow up question, but I think I was shocked that ANY teenager would think himself too young to do ANYTHING. I debarked post top-off for what Google Maps told me is a Bank of America (BofA) ATM at the Royal Farms just off Chincoteague Island. (I needed more precious cash.) Perhaps it was a BofA ATM once, but it no longer is. Google Maps then told me I could find a BofA ATM in Waves, North Carolina, but again to no avail. Google Maps, you suck at BofA locations! Lesson learned: search for “Bank of America,” click on the results which do NOT include “ATM,” and look at the photos to verify that the location actually is a Bank of America retail establishment. Arg. I arrived at my RV park in Rodanthe on the Outer Banks (OBX) in North Carolina around three thirty. I asked for a site close to the Clubhouse since the Wi-Fi is best there and the laundry is adjacent to it. I was easily accommodated because there are 400 sites and the park was 90% empty. I drove to my site and discovered that it was unsuitable for accessing my rear storage after I deployed the slide-out. So, I returned to the office and asked if I could move to the adjacent spot. Yes. I moved, completed my set-up, and then I realized that the electric hookup didn’t work. I pulled out all of my 25’ power line and connected it to the electric box at my first site. I walked to the office and informed the manager of the situation. He said that my solution was fine and that he'd have the maintenance guy troubleshoot my site’s electric hookup problem tomorrow. It was sunset, and if I had to move again, it would have taken me another hour to do so, and it would have been executed in the dark. Lesson learned: test the site’s power first, then make sure that the fresh water flows, otherwise I have to move. It is the perigee-syzygy tomorrow tonight, but it was damn close tonight. If had arrived an hour prior, and hadn't had to move sites, and hadn't had an electrical problem, and had I known that the moon was going to rise over the Atlantic, I could have taken the most fabulous photograph of the rising moon at four-something this afternoon. Ironically, it is only because I had those problems that my ignorance of the locus of the event was almost overcome: that is, I almost saw the "super moon." Now, it looks like it always does. It was 35 degrees outside at six-thirty this morning when I got up and put on the heat. It was 48 degrees inside BOB. I had let the dogs sleep with me so we could keep each other warm during the night. The heating system continues to blow ambient air once it hits the temperature set on the thermostat, and I neither like the sound of it nor the feeling of room temperature air blowing on me, so I don’t use it. The dogs were happy – especially Addison who curled up as close to my face as she could.
I've read several articles in The New York Times, The Washington Post, The Wall Street Journal, The Guardian, and The Atlantic offering postmortems on the election. The consensus seems to be that the Trump campaign focused on identity- rather ideology-politics. The white working- and middle-classes want better paying jobs, lower taxes, law-and-order, and fewer immigrants, so they hired a silver-spooned white boy who has never looked for work, who has skillfully avoided paying taxes, who has had a series legal entanglements, and who identified immigrants as the threat to their jobs and security, to do their bidding. The irony is obvious, but the logic prevails: they see Trump (his socioeconomic status at birth notwithstanding) as the embodiment of the American Dream. These are the same people who rail against estate and inheritance taxes although most of them will never be subject to them. They believe, however, if given the opportunity (by the government?), they will achieve tremendous wealth and they don't want their heirs to pay those taxes. I also don't believe in estate, inheritance, or capital gains taxes. If I pay income tax on my wages, why should I or my heirs pay further taxes because I was able to increase the value of my after-tax wages by investing in real property or stocks and bonds? That really doesn't seem fair to me every time I pay capital gains taxes. Leonard Cohen died this week. I became familiar with his music when I was in business school. A friend had the 1975 "Best of Leonard Cohen" CD which I subsequently purchased. "Suzanne," "Famous Blue Raincoat," "So Long, Marianne," and "Hey, That's No Way to Say Goodbye" are on my iTunes playlist. I would have picked Cohen over Bob Dylan for the Nobel Prize in Literature, but no one asked me. The cabinet beneath the kitchen sink is wet again. It hasn't rained, I haven't filled the water tank, and I haven't moved BOB. This time there was water beneath rubber liner. I spent an hour trouble-shooting the leak. Again. I can't remove the rear vertical panel because of the pipes and I can take the pipes apart. When I unscrew the rear panel I can slide it up about three inches which is enough for me to get my hands behind it. Some of the wires were wet, but the floor wasn't soaked. Again, I ran both the hot and cold water in an attempt to replicate the leak, but I neither saw nor felt any water. The hot water heater was off, so I really wasn't running "hot" water. Perhaps the leak is caused by condensation? It seems unlikely. My next experiment is to turn on the hot water heater and not run the water for one or two hours and see if the cabinet gets wet from condensation. If it's dry, I'll do the dishes and check the cabinet again. The shower stall started leaking again, too. I don't care about that. There isn't a real grocery on Chincoteague Island which is pronounced "Shincoteague" by the locals and Jincoteague by Donald Trump. I went to four shops looking for heavy whipping cream, but I had to settle for half-and-half. The guy at the shop was great and he told me where I could buy bourbon. I haven't had bourbon since June, and the cold air aroused in me a desire for brown liquor. Virginia is one of those ridiculous states which controls the sale of liquor through "state" stores. When I lived in Philadelphia, I would go to New Jersey to buy booze (because Pennsylvania is one of those ridiculous states), in spite of the fact that I didn't own a car. Only states which have no borders (Alaska and Hawaii) can get away with that crap. Maine, the only state which borders only one other, borders New Hampshire, a state which says that you can live free or die, and which abolished its state liquor stores in 1991. I didn't have a backpack with me so I stuffed the half-and-half inside my coat and departed for the state store. Once there, the prospect of buying a 1.5 liter bottle of bourbon was daunting because my coat couldn't hold it. I stared at the 750ml bottles of Woodford Reserve for a while when I noticed the 200ml bottle of Maker's Mark. Sold! It would fit in my other pocket! Good thinking, Maker's! There is an older travel trailer behind me with three women, one man, and two mid-sized mutts. When I went to bed last night, they were sitting outside listening to Seventies music. Across the driveway from them is a couple with their own mid-sized mutt and three little boys, all of whom were sleeping in a tent. It was forecast to be in the thirties overnight, with high humidity, and winds exceeding 10mph. I was worried about being cold inside BOB, so I can't imagine being in a tent under those conditions.
After dinner tonight (meatloaf and mashed potatoes which I made and froze when Tom, Steve, and Meredith visited me in Delaware), I moseyed over to the neighbor’s site since they were standing outside their trailer conversing. I took a glass of wine, and I discoursed with nearly everyone, surprising myself at being such a gadfly. The RVers are parents with teenage daughters, and the mother is a cousin of the women whose family is in the tent. Another female cousin arrived while I was there, and other cousins will arrive tomorrow. I guess it’s a family reunion of sorts. I departed their company as the dad rigged a bed sheet as a screen for the movie projector. I was already too cold. The wind blew at 18mph for most of the night. BOB rocked in the cross wind, in part because I hadn’t lowered the stabilizing jacks. A breeze of that magnitude also let me know that he is far from airtight. It was 55 degrees inside when I put the heat on in the morning. The blower seemed to lack power. I hope that's a reflection of it being powered by the batteries, as opposed to a new problem. I had to run the generator to dry my hair because the batteries don’t power the outlets. I have to admit that dry camping in either the cold of the winter or the heat of the summer is not for me.
I saw the doe again last night, then I saw her and her fawn this morning. Three older-looking-than-they-are guys dressed in camouflage were standing near BOB this morning after I walked the dogs. They were dressed to kill but they were sporting cameras and binoculars instead of guns. I assumed they were "pony" spotting. About an hour later a pony walked by BOB. It looked like the same one I saw the night before but I couldn't be sure. As I left the campsite to drive to Chincoteague, there were three ponies along the road. One was a filly, and I was able to get a couple of pictures of her with my phone. She was scruffy and small and adorable. I wish her good luck: it's a hard life on Assateague. The RV park in Chincoteague has 633 sites which makes it the largest park in which I've camped. Five hundred of them seem to be mobile homes and RVs which never move. The park closes the last day of November, so whatever remains has to be winterized and isn't accessible until the park reopens in the spring. The RV park only takes cash or checks; I carry little of the former and none of the latter. Cable is a la carte. Parking is on grass, and four sites share a multi-headed spigot for water. If this place is indicative of RV parks on the eastern seaboard I will not be happy. Fortunately the season is over so it isn't crowded, but it's noisier than any other park in which I've camped. It must be horrible in season, and this park is the best-rated site on the island. The ponies of Chincoteague are the ancestors of the ponies of Assateague which swam to this island. I rode my bike to the southern end of Assateague this afternoon to catch a glimpse of them, but it was to no avail. The snowy egrets, great blue heron, Mallards, and fucking Canada geese were present, however. I parked my bike and walked to the ocean and watched the waves for a few minutes. On my ride home, I stopped to buy a Powerball ticket because I like the odds. When I arrived at Kim and Kate's a few weeks ago, I ran yet another set of experiments to determine the source of the leak under the kitchen sink. I ran the cold and hot water faucets individually into each basin, but no leak occurred. The basin and the faucets have never felt wet when I've discovered the pools. The water must be coming either from the input pipes or the drains, since there is no way an exogenous water source (e.g. AC or heat condensation) could enter the cabinet area. I have been keeping a microfiber cloth on the left hand side of the cabinet to absorb the water because it only pools there. After I ran my experiments, I added a rubber shelf liner to the entire cabinet bottom. This morning, when I arrived in Chincoteague, the microfiber cloth was soaked. The rubber liner was dry beneath it. I replaced the microfiber cloth. The source of the leak remains a mystery because I can’t remove the panel to access the lines going into the faucet – doing so would require the disassembly of the drain pipes, and they are glued together. In the wee small hours of the morning, the United States elected (effective January 20, 2017) to become a Banana Republic, or more specifically, an Orange Republic. My rational mind is trying to console me with thoughts like, "Maybe Trump is crazy like a fox!" But, it isn't having any success. Trump’s choice of Cabinet Secretaries and his nomination for Supreme Court Justice will portend the fate of the nation for the next two years until the House goes up for election. Until then, Trump will spend his political capital freely. At least we know what Alec Baldwin will doing for the next four years.
There are two truths this morning: one, never trust the polls; and two, Hillary Clinton's political career is over. Although Secretary Clinton marginally won the popular vote, I can't help but feel that the country just doesn't want her. She failed the "beer test" as did Mitt Romney, but there is more to it than that. It's a given (or should be), that career politicians will say and do anything within the elastic limits of the law in order to get elected, but three decades of Clinton scandals (Whitewater, extra-marital affairs, Benghazi, the private email server, The Clinton Foundation, et al.), whether proved or only alleged, are enough to suggest that they believe they live above the law. And, when her message distills to "four more years," it certainly doesn't foment either inspiration or action compared to Bernie Sander's whackadoodle ideology or Donald Trump's Hitleresque hate-and-blame pedagogy. Hillary Clinton may have been the best qualified Presidential candidate across all parties, but she was a poor choice for the Democrat party, and she was "chosen" because it her "turn" (again). While Donald Trump has derailed the Republican party of Reagan, Hillary Clinton has also proved that the Democrats need to retool their ideology. I'm not sure if I'd feel any better if Clinton had won. I didn't want a second Obama administration let alone a third. It's like putting your money in a CD – sure it's safe, but your wealth isn't going to grow. A Trump presidency is like putting your money in junk bonds – you're either going to make a fortune or lose everything. He'll probably make Michael Milken Secretary of the Treasury. I might feel better about Trump if I had a job. Looking for employment has its own measure of uncertainty vis-a-vis the with whom, what, where, when, and how much; however, the certainty of dissaving never feels good. This morning I drove to Assateague Island National Seashore which is 80 minutes south of Kim and Kate's beach house. I'm dry-camped for the night. Assateague, MD and Chincoteague, VA are known for their wild horses. I've wanted to visit (Chincoteague, in particular) since I read Misty of Chincoteague when I was a kid. The book also made me want a "pony." My father promised me one when I turned 10, but he didn't deliver. Occasionally, he acknowledges his failure, then attempts to make amends by offering to buy me one for my loft condominium, or, more recently, BOB. The weather forecast for this week had proved more accurate than the election polls, but today it similarly shit the bed. It began raining this morning, and was predicted to continue all day. Fortunately, it didn't. I took the dogs for a long walk at mid-day and we saw a doe and her fawn, then one wild horse. The deer and the dogs were quite curious about each other, but the horse and they took no notice. The horse was chestnut with a blonde mane – a spectacular color combination – but we were never closer than 100 feet to her or him. The horses are likely descendants of farmers' horses turned loose to graze tax-free in the 17th century. The poor diet has rendered them pony-sized and bloated from their high salt intake. The Maryland horses, which are owned by the National Seashore, only receive veterinary care when they are mortally ill or wounded, in which case they are euthanized. The Chincoteague horses receive routine veterinary care because the local fire department owns them and sells the foals to raise money. I've agreed to meet Kim and Kate on Jekyll Island the Sunday after Thanksgiving. I don't need two-and-a-half weeks to get there, so I'm not sure what I'm going to do to slow down my natural progression. I'll spend three nights each in Chincoteague, Rodanthe, Emerald Isle, and Charleston, but that still leaves me a few days to kill. I'm trying to channel my "don't plan, experience" mantra, so I'll play it by ear. All I know is that I'll use Uber to go into Charleston for lunch. One night, while visiting my parents last month, I invited them for cocktails in BOB (as one does). My father stood because he was mad at my mother about something (everything), and he didn't want to sit beside her. My father remarked that if he had a motorhome he would add a third front seat to the cockpit (for my mother, assuming someone else was driving and he was riding shotgun). I had displaced two tubs from the rear storage when I bought my bike. That required them to ride shotgun, which was aesthetically offensive to me. As I shifted my seasonal possessions last month, it occurred to me that an ottoman would solve my storage problem and give me additional seating in the cabin. So, I bought one. The dogs are thrilled, and my father will have a place to sit the next time he and my mother come over for cocktails. I had planned on leaving today, but Kim and Kate asked me to stay through the election for moral support. They really want me to stay so that they can go with me on Wednesday if Trump wins. We are going to drive to Venezuela because it will seem comparatively less fucked up than the US with President Trump.
A 39 year old woman was critically injured at the Punkin Chunkin yesterday when one of the guns "exploded." Shrapnel hit her in the head. I don't know whether she was part of a team's pit crew or whether she was a spectator. A 56 year old man was also injured, but not critically. The Chunkin was not held in 2014 and 2015 because the landowner was sued by a volunteer "spotter" who flipped his ATV and injured his spine. The case was dismissed, but apparently insuring a different venue proved impossible in the interim. Ironically, I photographed a sign at the Chunkin informing each spectator that his/her ticket purchase per se acknowledged the assumption of all risks of personal injury, and therefore he/she couldn't sue the landowner. I suspect the injured parties will file suits against both the gun owner and the landowner, regardless of the ticket purchase “contract.” I'm going to move back into BOB tomorrow. I could do it on Wednesday morning, but my OCD-ish-ness is prevailing. The dogs have enjoyed Kim and Kate's house. I typically roll down the windows 10 minutes prior to our arrival on South Bowers Beach, and Jasper starts to whine from the smell of the salt air. I don't let them go in the Delaware Bay because the first time I did they drank the brackish, polluted water, then vomited and had diarrhea. I think what they really like here is having a lot of floor space in which to play, plus the plush chairs in the living room on which they sleep when Kate's not looking. Both dogs will whine when I start moving things out of our suite at Kim and Kate's tomorrow. No matter how much they like a place, they like the place where I am better. Yesterday, Kim, Kate, their friend Dexter, and I went to the World Championship Punkin' Chunkin' in Bridgeville, Delaware. There were over 100 contraptions - air (pneumatic), catapult, torsion, trebuchet, human-powered, and some combinations thereof – flinging pumpkins thousands of yards. The air guns shoot pumpkins at 500-600 mph, and it is impossible to see them with the naked eye at any point in their trajectories. The mechanical devices, especially the human-powered ones (people on hamster wheels, bicycles, etc.), are more fun to watch because you can actually see the pumpkins leave their chunkers. Unfortunately, you can't see them bounce off the moon or explode when they hit the farmer's field in front of you.
We arrived before 10:00 – unfortunately, in time for one of the founders to sing the National Anthem. To say that she was only pitchy would be overly kind. Granted, it's a difficult song to sing, but when I hear it butchered it makes me feel almost as bad for the country as the prospect of either Clinton or Trump becoming President. She followed with the official “Punkin Chunkin” ballad, the lyrics of which are so awful that perfect pitch couldn't improve them. As we meandered toward our first launch, a couple started talking to us. Now that I'm well practiced in engaging strangers, I inquired about their residence. When they politely returned the question, I said that I am full-time-RVing. They spent a month in their Class A this summer, and they were in it for the weekend for the Chunkin. I spent 20 minutes talking to them – exchanging RV experiences, while they educated me on how the Chunkin works, where to stand, where to look, etc. I mentioned that I think that people who home school there kids should buy RVs and use the traveling experience to teach US History, geology, cultural anthropology, etc. The couple said they met a 40-something couple from Oklahoma who were doing that: they had two Class A RVs to transport their 15 children. That, isn't home schooling, that's Little House on the Prairie on wheels! Punkin Chunkin is a stupid white people thing to do. I can say this because the MIT team notwithstanding, Jews, Asians, Hispanics, and black people do not look at food and wonder how to build a machine to hurl it. They cook it. In kitchens. They also don't win Darwin Awards. I asked Dexter if he's ever bothered by being the only black man at an event. He said he no longer notices. I prefaced my question by noting its indelicacy. I am white, and I have rarely been in a situation in which I'm a minority. I can't always walk a mile in other peoples' shoes, but I can always ask them how it feels to walk in theirs. The road wasn't flooded this morning when I left for the post office and grocery store. When I picked up my package, it was marked "flood." USPS arrived at the beach house shortly after I returned. The employee put two packages by the garage door. I poked my head out of BOB and said hello. I asked her if she ever alters her delivery schedule to accommodate the Murderkill River tide. She said only if she hasn't been able to get down the road for a week. Then she asked if I wanted the mail. I said yes. If I had said no, would she have put it in the box or kept it another day?
My cousin Camilla and her husband Eugene arrived here before noon. I gave them a tour of BOB. Eugene asked so many questions that he could either sell BOB or operate him without further instruction. Eugene loves the road, but Camilla doesn't. I told her that she could sit in the dinette and write which would allow her to ignore the "road." I also told her that the "road" is a lot more interesting west of 100 degrees longitude. Eugene left us to continue to Maryland to see a friend with a boat. I welcomed him to return to spend the night, but he said he'd promised his friend a night of endless drinking. He said he'd see us for coffee in the morning. Camilla and I adjourned to a luncheon of roasted pepper and tomato soup, arugula salad, and assorted cheese and crackers. I asked her if she'd like some wine, too. She said yes. During lunch, we had twenty simultaneous conversations – some of which we finished and others of which we didn't. After lunch, I ran the dishwasher, and we went for a walk on the beach. The wine made Camilla feel spinny – she consumed it a relatively empty stomach and in a sleep-deprived state – so she adjourned for a nap. My female dog Addison has all the scruffy cuteness of a stray – a la Benji. Like me, she hasn't had a haircut in three months. Unlike me, she looks adorable. She has curlier and oiler hair than her brother, a greater affinity for dirt, and a propensity to grow dingleberries. (Isn’t she lovely?) Jasper is perhaps the most handsome Westie I have ever seen. He is well-proportioned with straight hair that looks good at any length. On Friday, I'm taking them to Petco in Rehoboth Beach to have them groomed. They will look like puppies once again and my care of them will be easier, but it always makes me a little sad to lose my scruffy girl and pretty long-haired boy. Yesterday, I sent a FaceBook message about my Google Calendar Election Day formula to a former colleague who shares my Excel geekiness. She reacted with glee, then asked if I was "still" with Trump. She is a diehard Carson supporter who shifted to Trump as the party's candidate. What I told her in the summer of 2015 is that I liked what Trump was doing to stir the pot of 400 candidates for the party’s nomination. To me, he was a potential weed-killer. To me, he was never going to be President. My friend asked who I voted for (because yesterday was Google Election Day), and I said that I had voted against Trump but that I had supported the party down-ticket. For selfish reasons, I wish Antonin Scalia hadn't died this spring. Ruth Bader Ginsburg lost her friend, but I hope that if it were up to her she'd choose a new colleague who similarly disagreed with her. I don't want a Court solely composed of judges who think that the Constitution is completely fixed or completely flexible. And, if you want to talk to me about politics (or religion, or any subject that can start a war), ask me to argue your position while you argue mine. If we can’t do that, then we should agree to disagree, and proceed to argue about the weather. 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. |
Siobhan M. KnoxIn May 2016, I bought a five ton, 25’ long Class C motorhome because I like to drive, I like to travel, and it’s more fun and less expensive than living in a hotel. No prior RV experience was required, and I had none: perfect. I’m writing a book about my adventures which will come to an end when I get a job. The dogs will be sad. Archives
February 2018
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