Barbara Ellen and I are studying this Amtrak route map to decide what to tell the travel agent about how we want to get to Trinidad, Colorado, in February. Objective: See snow. Romp in snow. Snap pictures of snow. Also get stoned.
Looks like we get there fastest by going north to Oklahoma City, taking an Amtrak-provided Greyhound bus to Newton, Kansas, and thence by train to Trinidad. But the times must be calculated, since only one or two trains leave an Amtrak station daily. Probably only one from little 19,000 pop. Newton.
Barbara Ellen was driving her daughter’s newish Chevy when the engine idiot light came on. She drove to AutoZone and had them examine the engine’s computer for “the code” that explained the light.
Seems to be something called “the impulse valve” which relates to the exhaust not the engine itself. So daughter is now equipped to take the car to a mechanic to knowledgeably ask for a fix. BE and daughter dislike going to dealers. They prefer AutoZone’s tipoff.
Seems like pure magic to me. My 14-year-old CRV has some computers in it, particularly the ignition key, but not this level of sophistication.
Austin is a Dimocrat city, of course, and the power problem seems to be worse according to the politics. Thus our little Republican enclave in Northwest Hills suffered eight hours of no electricity yesterday. “Some burned wires,” the peon at the city utility said. “We have no estimate on a fix.”
Beginning in mid-afternoon with the temp in the 90s, it finally ended about 11 p.m., when BE and I were sweating in bed with the windows open for cross-ventilation—me remembering the 1940s-50s before air-conditioning. Her just being miserable.
Miriam has written of Republican neighborhoods in Albany, New York who “did not have potholes in their streets fixed or the snow removed (There was a lot of snow)” by the Dimocrat bureaucracy. Here we lose electric power about three times a year, sometimes from high winds, but this time there was no wind at all.
I’d complain but what’s the point. It would be a waste of time. I should get a BETO sign (the sly Hispanic nickname of the fourth-generation Irish-American Dim running for the U.S. Senate) for the the front yard. The neighbors across the street have one and their lights didn’t go out. But that wouldn’t fool ’em. They have the voting records and so they know I voted for the Republican Cruz.
Barbara Ellen from Dimmitt and I tied the knot Tuesday evening, then went out for dinner on a friend at Chez Zee. It was loud in the restaurant and we both were debilitated by it, me because I’m 74 and don’t sleep well and her because she’s introverted and doesn’t like crowds, particularly noisy ones.
But we’re pleased to be married after two months of courtship and seven months of living together. “You’re mine,” BE said later, quoting the rabbi who was quoting from the Song of Songs, particularly appropriate in Elul, the month of love.
I told Mr. B. at Texas A&M by text and will send him a few pics of us at our simple and uncomplicated wedding in the rabbi’s study. I would post them but I prefer privacy, especially for BE. Take my word for it: We’re very happy.
Barbara Ellen and me watched the conclusion of Lonesome Dove the other night, weeping at the appropriate parts because we’re both suckers for cinematic manipulation.
I thought the ending was weak but after all that came before it was acceptable. I still like the book better.
Barbara Ellen says no, to my query whether Tampons feel erotic. It’s a question I always wanted to ask. No, she said, its having a dry thing stuck up inside you.
“It makes me feel like I’m smuggling cotton.”
If you don’t believe in reincarnation try asking a 2-year-old sometime the following: “Do you remember when you were big?”
A friend of Barbara Ellen’s did that and was astounded by the little girl’s offhand reply: “Yes. I was a nurse.”
UPDATE: After the friend got over her shock, she asked the little girl for more details. To which the girl replied: “Move on, move on.”