Done deal.
We are no longer in our lovely domicile in Avondale, AZ.
The funds have hit the account, the desert is in our rear-view mirror, and we are in a hotel in Albuquerque. I will wait until I give the customer service liaison an opportunity to answer my written missive before I put anything down here. Besides, I might have to eat crow in a just a few minutes if I set off the smoke alarm, as I found a way to pry my 5th floor window open a few inches.
The weather has been awesome. Crazy clouds and rain cooled off the drive considerably and I was able to average about 80 mph all the way here.
I really love driving behind people who very obviously have no earthly idea what the fuck they are doing or where in the hell they are headed. Just in case there is not an official law somewhere, I will hereby make one:
“It is illegal to pass another vehicle and go 5 mph in the fast lane as you delay 100 people from getting to where they want to go in a timely manner.”
Punishment: You must sit for one hour listening to my wife explain the tax codes and new impending legislation.
Bo-ring.
Boom!
Criminal behaviour truncated.
0% recidivism.
For the entire 650-mile trip, I was only followed once by a New Mexico State Trooper. I was going over 100 the opposite way he was headed, and I could see in the rear-view that he was turning around. I am sure he did not get a chance to clock me, so I eased down to 80 again and watched interestingly as he pulled even with my car and escorted me for about 5 miles before I saw another trooper on the other side of the freeway tending an accident which was obviously where he was headed.
No worries, right mate?
Except my balls shrank to the size of capers and my sphincter had closed completely.
So, as today nears its end, we plan for our short sortie over to Amarillo, Texas tomorrow.
And as everybody knows, if it ain’t Texas, it ain’t shit!
One thing that happened was I almost ran out of gas. You know how that would have gone over with Karen. It is just that our new car has a 20-gallon tank, so I take it for granted and rarely check the gauge. But as we were 50 miles away from the nearest gas station, the “Fuel Low” light came on. For one second, I thought I would just hide it from her and hope like hell that we made it without having to call AAA to come bail my ass out of hot water once again. But instead, I told her about the warning light and of course then I had to sit and eat shit and promise to never do it again.
Once we got to the station, we filled up, and since I am a numbers guy, I calculated exactly how much fuel remained before we would have been stranded in the rain on a busy highway.
We had 7 miles left before totally empty.
I didn’t tell the Domestic Despot.
Need to know.
Stay well.
Mark's Playhouse 