Hobbles, Trousers, Laxatives and Stove Lids

I take the direct route to my office. I do not stop for that last sip of strong coffee with steamed skim milk.  I shield my eyes from  front page online news with stories of a serial rapist out East who's finally nailed on DNA evidence, more Charlie Sheen and Governor Scott "Skippy" Walker antics, a cute video of a cat walking a tightrope (my cat can leap tall buildings in a single bound) and run for your lives there's a weather comin' stories. 

To get online I have to wait for 653 other poverty stricken bloggers who are on dial-up like me.  When I left the kitchen table with backpack, hiking boots, extra polish sausage and a map, I had the title for this post and nothing more.

The river rats in the book I'm reading are dead in the water deep in Montana.  First they run out of gas, get more and lastly, the motor quits. It's after midnight.  They dock their craft and set out into deep dookie ( a rancher is grazing cows in a wilderness area).  Later they learn they walked nine miles to get to their original destination, a short jaunt by boat.  The B&B is a former mercantile, hence the pilot goes in the basement after some sleep and finds the auto fuse he needs for the boat motor.

The phone rings.  In  terminal ineptness, I screw up the answer mode  to vibrate and tone.  So what I hear is bzz,bzz, and the ringtone of a 1946 black, Bakelite rotary phone (whenever a phone rings in an old movie I ask Dawn ,"Is that my phone").I don't recognize the number. A phone call from your accountant at sevenish in the morning is disturbing. I preface my remarks with, "I'm not awake yet." in case he asks me something requiring half a brain.  We exchange a few pieces of information and I go back to my hash browns and English muffin toast with fresh bluebery jam.

The early morning phone call reminds me that a call to the youngest in Arizona will be a short chat with Google answering services.  What's that?  Is there no place that is beyond the reach of Google?  I tell her via voice mail that a three sentence e-mail asking me 'how I've been' and telling me 'she's really busy' is lame.  Mimicking Garrison Keillor on  A Prairie Home Companion talking to Mom, I parody the Mother's irritating nasal twang.

I truly dislike e-mail for all the nuances, the tone, that you miss. I tell the youngest that Seven Roads To Home will tell you all you need or want to know.  I suggest she give me a call, like her brother does every weekend.

The talk of the town is of a snowstorm bearing down on us.  I mentally try to avoid getting into a funk or to begin storing up nuts for the long siege. The woodbin is empty because I've been painting the floor and waterproofing the walls.  I ask Dawn's advice about putting in a subfloor in the wood bin.  Crazy Angie or some other previous owner erected a stud wall with no floor anchors.  When the bin is full, the wall bulges at the base like a fat cow. I need 2X4's.  The battery on the truck is dead.  Jorge lends me his battery charger. After 24 hours on the life support machine, the dial on the charger says the battery is 100% charged.  I drive to the Amish, Jorge's place, take the long way home and waste enough gas to drive my 35 mpg passenger car from here to Madison. After a spell in the garage, I jump in to test the truck. Nothing. The six year old battery doesn't hold a charge That means a trip to town to get a new battery.  There goes the morning. Durn.