I filled the Suburban up with gas on Monday, which made me ask myself, “Why don’t I just sign Hubs’ entire monthly paycheck over to the gas station right now?” Because mercy! Apparently our tank is on equal footing, size wise, with the gas tank in an aircraft carrier, and you cannot even fathom the hole in your checkbook that’s created when you actually pay for said gas.
When the tank was full and the checkbook held an echo, I reset the trip odometer, because my OCD likes to know how many miles I have driven. Actually, it’s more than that. I know that I can get right at 400 miles before I am stranded on the side of the road, holding out my thumb in hopes that someone will give me a ride to the local convenience store.
And if you believe that, then I pity you. If I ever ran out of gas, I’d simply scootch way down in my driver’s seat and call Hubs on my cell phone. There would be no walking and hitchhiking involved. You can bet your sweet grandmother’s secret recipe on it. When the fuel pump went out of the Suburban and left me on the interstate two years ago, a mere three miles from Small Town’s city limits, I called Hubs and said, “Listen. The Suburban won’t drive faster than 8 mph, and I’m gonna need you to go ahead and call a tow truck and come on out and get me.” And this is where Hubs said, “I have a meeting. If you can drive forward at 8 mph, then drive it home.” Every single member of the female tribe will understand the enormous sobs that I was involved in when the highway patrolman pulled over and asked me if everything was okay, and I simply shook my head and whispered, “He told me to drive it home! I’m going to get smashed like a field mouse on the interstate, and he doesn’t care!” The highway patrolman immediately regretted his decision to pull over and check on me, because he was good at catching speeders and handing out tickets. What he wasn’t good at was family counseling.
Which, I’m happy to report, we never needed, because apparently Hubs saw the error of his ways, and he galloped out to fetch me, and we all lived happily ever after.
You’re probably wondering what all of this has to do with anything, and, I have to admit, I’m right there with you. Apparently I can lose myself on my tangents when I don’t have a flashlight to find my way back with.
But ultimately, I filled up with gas, and I reset the trip odometer. And that happened Monday. Now it’s Thursday night, and I have driven over 200 miles without leaving Small Town behind.
That’s a lot of miles for one week’s worth of taxiing, people, but our weekly schedule this week has included golf lessons, three play dates, one manicure, one get-together for coffee, one eye doctor appointment, one chiropractor appointment, Vacation Bible School, one evening of babysitting my favorite two-year-old, work, four loads of laundry (which didn’t really require any driving), a trip to the bank, shopping for an upcoming birthday gift, two trips to Jimmy John’s, one trip to McDonald’s, a stop to buy groceries (crickets) for the frogs, three trips across town to water my parents’ garden while they were on vacation, four trips to the post office to collect my parents’ mail, a trip to the park for ice cream, and…that may have been it.
But I doubt it.
Because TWO HUNDRED MILES, PEOPLE!
So in lieu of writing anything substantial tonight, I’m just going to say, “Our week — it has been full.” And you’re to interpret that as saying, “And you really wouldn’t want to read anything I typed tonight, because I’m no longer even sure that my head is screwed on straight.”
And clearly it’s not, because I’m basically losing every single Words With Friends game that I’m involved in. All Words With Friends has done is show me that I have no real grasp on the English language any longer. It also cheats me of points, because I used all seven of my letter tiles in a word yesterday that made me cheer and whoop, until it came back and said, “SIXTEEN POINTS.”
Sixteen points for clearing your rack of letters in one long shot?!
I’d like to speak to a manager.
Also, for the first time ever, a random stranger invited me to play a game. Naturally, I accepted, because I cannot pass up the glove of challenge when it’s thrown down on the floor. I’ll go head-to-head with anyone in Scrabble…even strangers.
But I won’t take their candy.
By the end of Day Three with Stranger Player, I knew that engaging in the game was an outright mistake, because Stranger Player has the ability to make a square on the playing board that is five letters tall and five letters wide, with NO EMPTY SPACES, and it spells a word in every single direction.
Yes, people. Stranger Player can drop a word like it’s hot. And he (she?) leaves no blank spaces on the board.
Stranger Player is currently beating me by 153 points.
In the words of Gru from Despicable Me, “Oh, I hate THAT guy!”
I keep expecting Stranger Player to send me a message in the game which reads, “I’m really sorry, but I just figured you were an adult when the game gave me your name as a random opponent. I didn’t realize that I was playing a 3rd grader who has her own cell phone.”
So that’s where we’ll end things tonight, people.
Have a great Thursday evening.