A Trip to Tucson and Down Memory Lane Part III of III (no really)

Ah, the last installment of the seemingly never-ending story of a three-day journey, the trip from which reading the report took as long as the ride itself. Fear not, Intrepid Reader; the end is nigh. Even I am so tired of it I haven’t proofread this installment – one-and-done, babycakes!

Your protagonist had excused herself from the BBQ at the co-founder’s home (at which she desperately tried not to flirt with the cute girl who recently hired in, because #coworker – with mixed success at best) and she had ridden the mean Tucson streets back to the Hotel Congress for an early bedtime.

Side note, because of course there’s a side note: On that first, hazy, boozy evening, this adorable, young lady sat next to me at dinner. About an hour in,she leaned in close and whispered, “I think I have something to tell you.” I could smell her shampoo wafting over me, I felt her breath against my ear.

“Tell me,” I returned, envisioning all manner harmless-yet-flirtatious banter ensuing.

She paused, clearly on the horns of a dilemma, whether to tell me this obviously intensely personal thing. She drew a breath, paused again. “I think…”

“Yes?”

I began to prepare witty comebacks for a variety of statements and/or questions, all whilst toeing the line of professional conduct.

She leaned in even closer, almost giving me a butterfly kiss. What a sweet, sweet girl. So young, so innocent, so obviously smitten with this older, more sophisticated (SSHHH let me have this!!) woman. She gathered her courage and whispered…

“I think your fly is down.”

<sigh> Of course it was. And of course, that’s what she wanted to tell me, bless her puddin’ little heart. I had not mentally prepared any witty remarks for this particular scenario, oddly enough (but fordamnsure will in the future,) so I mumbled a grateful “thank you” and resumed poking at my risotto.

…aaaaaand, scene! Ok, moving on.

The BBQ was quite nice – I work with an incredibly brilliant, diverse, wonderful, and dynamic group of individuals, all of whom are orders of magnitude more talented than I ever have been or will be. We have a new PR/Marketing guy, who proposed an ice cream toast over dessert – I love the idea of an ice cream toast, and am going to make it a new tradition.

Our devops guru asked a question of the founder, the wonderful, gangly, puppy-like guy who ran the Emergency Fries back to me in the office. The founder is prone to speaking at length, without pause, imparting a vast swath of information and detail… that is not always necessarily relevant to the question at hand. I sometimes have the same problem myself.

He heaved forth a highly intellectual, factual, very detailed, absolutely impenetrable barrage of words. After a good five minutes of listening and nodding politely, the guru said, “that was the longest possible non-answer to my question.”

My Minion (and I say that with love; he is far more capable than I at all the things) and I both attempted to stifle both an ice-cream spit-take (mixed success) and a standing ovation (complete success, thankfully.) The guru must feel very secure in his job, and with good reason: He is fantastic. We have an amazing team from the top-down.

The boss’ wife asked to the see my bike, so I took her and the bossman out in the dark to see it. The wife asked questions, the boss not so much – he doesn’t like anything to do with driving. Questions answered and an awkwardly long, silent pause later, I said my goodbyes and fled back to the Hotel Congress.

In the hotel lobby, I was accosted by… well, you know, I’m not entirely certain what sort of person this was. There was a lot going on, aromatically and visually speaking, I’ll say that much. They may have been some kind of half-assed clown, or a really bad fortune teller (“I SEE SNAKES!” <maniacal cackling>) or who knows what, but they were well-, if oddly, dressed and the hotel staff did not seem inclined to remove them or to stop the… performance? The person made a point of coming up to me to compliment my unusual outfit and said we matched quite well. I’m not sure whether I was pleased or dismayed to realize they were correct. Hm.

I smiled politely and walked riiiight past them to the stairs. “Do not make eye contact, do not make eye contact, do not engage,” my inner normal person said, but all the while, my Polite Midwestern Farm Girl self said, “well, you have to make eye contact, you have to say hello, you have to at least acknowledge this person’s existence, they complimented you for Pete’s sake, otherwise you’re just being rude.”

“Shut. UP.” said the sleepy, normal self. The farm girl didn’t put up a fight.

Probably because it is impolite to squabble.

In my room at last, ahhhh… waitaminute. I kid you not, there was a thrash metal band playing either in my bathtub or across the street – it was difficult to discern their precise location, other than “TOO EFFING CLOSE.” Now, I appreciate a good metal thrashing as much as the next metal-appreciating person, but come on, already.

There was also a medium-sized plethora of small dogs who were Quite Put Out about the music, apparently, because they were barking non-fricking-stop. My Beloved Minion, Chris, had the room next to me, and also has a terrible time sleeping. I texted to warn him ahead of time.

The band actually stopped a little after 2100, miraculously.

I packed everything I could pack ahead of time and was in bed by 2130.

Ahhh, a full 8 hours of sleep was possible! Unlikely, but possible. I settled into the comfy pillows, pulled the sparse blankets up around my shoulders, got into my favorite sleeping position, and, pleased with my good fortune with regards to the band, began to relax.

“Oontz, oontz, oontz, oontz, OONTZ, oontz, oontz,” shrieked the radio station speakers, which, as you may remember, were positioned immediately below my window.

“What,” I moaned. “Surely, they will stop at 2200, right? It’s a weeknight, people at the hotel are in their rooms trying to sleep, so yeah – they’ll at least turn it down.”

But they did not turn it down, oh no; in fact, for some of the eclectic, oddly paired selections, they turned it UP. Their website announces, “bringing its signature, hand-curated programming straight into the heart of downtown and showcasing its diverse mix of musical genres and community-minded specialty programming.” I would like to change that to, “bringing its bizarre, hand-curated, incongruous programming straight into the ear holes of Erin’s head and the greater tri-county area, showcasing its WTF mix of musical genres and community-minded, insomniac programming which ignores everyone’s need for sleep.”

Accurate.

Sigh.

I then understood why the Hotel Congress provides complimentary ear plugs (no kidding, they really do.) I recalled, upon check-in, I had to sign a waiver stating I understood the Hotel Congress was an “urban hotel,” and that, as such, there “could be street noise which might interfere with restful sleep.” Had I known that the referenced “street noise” was hotel-induced music (ranging from hip-hop to yodeling) (I am not kidding) I might have had a question or two. “Why is Himalayan yak-strangling being piped into my room at 2am in the morning,” for example.

Earplugs are wonderful for blocking mid- to high-range sounds, but not so much for the bass. Thus, while the higher-pitched yak strangulations were muted, the overwhelming bass tones were not. I do not fall asleep easily under the best of circumstances, even when thoroughly exhausted as I was that night.

I struggle-bussed into and almost immediately right back out of a few light dozes until 0430, long before the sun was even thinking about coming up. An entire brass band was enthusiastically playing through the speakers. I gave up. I took care of the work that had come in overnight, opted not to do battle with the shower, got dressed, and packed up the rest of my nonsense. I then walked to the parking garage to retrieve the GS.

Ah. The Parking Situation.

Upon checking in, after signing the “we’re going to keep your ass AWAKE for the duration of your stay” and before receiving my enormous, brass “please give this back to us anytime you leave the building and yes, we’re completely serious about that” key, I asked where I should park the bike. She gave me directions to the parking garage a block away along with a printed pass that would bypass the automated fee machines’ fees. “Just scan this when you leave the garage,” she said. Cool.

Not keen on making two, block-long trips carrying heavy stuff with my already cranky back, I opted to unload the bike before parking. After so doing, I rode the 1.5 blocks to the garage, took the ticket from the machine at the entrance, and parked in the first available “compact” spot which was, conveniently, the very closest one. Nice.

When I tried to leave the parking structure on the way to the BBQ the next night, I had scanned my pass as I went to leave.”Wrong presence,” the monitor helpfully prompted. Um. Ok. I ended up hitting the attendant intercom button and explaining the situation. “Hm, wow, ok – let me see what I can do from my end,” he said, as if raising the gate/bar were something he’d never previously had to do. After a moment, up it went and out I went.

The same thing occurred as I tried to leave the for last time. At 0515am in the morning (and yes I realize that is saying “in the morning” three different ways; I want to emphasize the early-morningness of the situation.)

There was no one working in Parking Garageland at 0515am in the morning, so the intercom went unanswered. For 5 minutes. Sigh. While it was ringing, I thought I’d try to sneak out, but the GS tank was juuuuuust slightly too wide to fit between the gap, and I wasn’t super excited about potentially dropping my bike trying to finagle it through at a weird angle that would put at least one tire up on the curb. I don’t have enough leg as it is, no need to go courting further height discrepancies.

A young man pulled up behind me. I motioned for him to wait a moment whilst I backed out of his way. I explained it wasn’t letting me out and that I would just follow him through. He nodded.

His ticket worked, up the gate went and he proceeded through, with me hot on his heels. It is a very good thing I was right on his very bumper because the nanosecond his car passed through, the bar came WHOMPING down with a speed I had not expected. I reflexively ducked, and it bounced off the top case. Grumble.

I glanced at the temperature: 34.5 degrees. Oh, boy. Thank goodness for Pat Widder.

Trudging up and down the stairs for the last few times, I got everything loaded onto the bike as morning traffic began to pick up. Bike loaded, room checked, double-checked, and triple-checked for left-behind items (Lance Corporal Chaos is prone to forgetting things, as we’ve already established,) I approached the front desk to check out.

The gentleman behind the counter was so very helpful. I was in a rush, so he was almost too helpful. Could he help me bring down my things, could he get me a cup of coffee, did I want breakfast, was there anything about my stay that needed improvement (no time for that talk,) was there anything else he could do for me, and so forth. I thought of asking for a foot massage, just to see what response that might garner, but feared he would say yes.

I asked about the parking pass, just off-hand. “And you scanned it when you entered the garage, yes?” Well, NO, no one told me I had to do that. Mystery solved.

I was on the road shortly after 0530, well ahead of schedule. Nice. I’d skipped breakfast and coffee in favor of making sure I got out of the city before traffic decided to make that process much more unpleasant.

About an hour out, the sun was thinking of rising and my thermometer was insistently flashing “33.5” at me, the subtext of which was, “why in tarnation are you even out in this temperature, my precious, fragile idiot.” I needed gas, so I decided to heed her advice and pulled off to take care of that. My tummy was making rumbly noises, my brain needed OMFG COFFEE AND RIGHT NOW, PLEASE, and the only place around that was open was… a McDonald’s.

Friends, I’m not a frequenter of McDonald’s. I worked there at age 16, they’re not great on vegetarian/pescetarian options, and the “food” is just… not terribly food-like. Still, I knew they had coffee, and that was, by far, the most important thing.

I walked into the joint and immediately realized “things have changed in McDonald’s land.” First, there were the touchscreen ordering panels (very nice, I don’t have to talk to a human!) Next, the insanely attentive attendants who could have given the Hotel Congress guy a run for his money in terms of overall eagerness (dammit, human interaction after all.) There was, and this was, by far, the most shocking thing: Table Service. Whaaaat?!

Unfortunately, the food was still the same. Alas.

Gas tank and belly full, I headed off into the desert.

I love the warm, orange-y light on all the things when traveling West at sunrise: The landscape and everything in it is bathed in a glorious, melted honey glow. Sadly, the GoPro is unpleasant to have on the helmet at freeway speeds, so all of those moments were only recorded by the ever-shifting sands of my memory. I was going to make a Tibetan sand mandala analogy here, but lost the train of thought midway through. <rimshot>

Traffic was sparse at this point, and I looked for a good spot to ditch the highway and hit some nice two-lane roads. I’m completely unfamiliar with this area, once off the freeway, and was looking forward to exploring.

The first decent-looking opportunity came near Gila Bend. I pulled off, decided randomly to go left, and this looked promising indeed, until about a mile in:

Normally, this would be a “wheeee!” moment, but certain promises have been exacted by the Cowboy regarding me going offroad alone, especially on the GS. It’s as if he doesn’t have 100% confidence I wouldn’t topple over and be stranded in the middle of nowhere; I cannot imagine where anyone would get this idea. <cough>

As it happened, though, it was just as well I stayed true to the promise, because, according to Google Maps, the dirt road ahead is stick-straight, goes nowhere interesting (other than an abandoned stockyard,) and turns into deep sand a few miles in. This shouldn’t be any surprise, given the overall terrain.

Quasi-related, to this day, my mind is blown that I can see things as small as the cattle-guard shown in my photo above from space:

Granted, it’s a big damn cattle-guard, but still. Also, it would be easy to bust up an ankle going across, if one were not careful. I most definitely did not almost do that.

Twice.

How far we’ve come, technologically, and how far we have to go.

So, here I am, slightly sad about not doing any of the nifty dirt roads I’d seen, but still happy to be out and on an adventure… even if it was a paved one.

After shooting some photos, I flipped around, passed over the freeway and headed North. Surely, more opportunity for fun lay in store that way.

I was not wrong! A few miles up the road, I caught a really sad-looking playground off to the right, next to which was a very vintage firetruck. Neat! I wandered around snapping photos for 20 or so minutes, and took a few that I really love. This one is my favorite:

Runners-Up:

Why was it a “sad” little playground? Because the equipment was made entirely out of used construction materials. Resourceful? Yes, absolutely, make do with what you have. Safe? Ehhhh, not so much, perhaps:

A few miles further up the road, it looked for a moment like I would be forced onto the freeway again, so I found a place to pull off. It may not have been, strictly speaking, an ok place for me to be, as it was the driveway for the county maintenance equipment, and there was a State Trooper parked right across the street looking down at me. This road also ended in a potential off-road experience, but it was so obviously sandy there wasn’t even a slight temptation.

Now, I’ve gotten away with a lot of stuff simply by looking like I have every right to be doing the thing that I’m doing. Those details are best left out here (“THANK GOODNESS,” cries the audience.) I parked the bike, dismounted without any hesitation, and began looking for the best way to go.

Saddled up, waved at the Trooper for a second time, and headed West-ish. Almost immediately, I saw the road to my right said, “Old Highway 80:” I KNOW THAT ROAD! Well, I know one end of it; I’d never seen this side. Confident I’d see some good stuff and probably end up near where I wanted to be, I went thataway.

Welp. The beginning stages weren’t hugely fun and consisted of a series of long, straight lines, infrequently punctuated by slight bends, but the scenery was better than the highway.

I passed farms, ranches, crazy-looking electrical equipment straight out of a 50’s B-movie, and a few bikes as I tooled along at a positively leisurely pace, drinking in the views.

After many miles, I began to smell water, and, around a curve I found the coolest trestle bridge – I’m sure many of you have also seen and appreciated it.

I spent some time admiring the scenery and the bridge itself, and then moved on. I could sense it was going to get more interesting from here on out, and I was not disappointed. Briefly. The road became a bit curvier for awhile, and there were other photo opportunities.

One of the things I enjoy about traveling alone is being able to stop and take as many photos as I want without driving any riding companions absolutely bonkers. There are times when I can’t go half a mile without stopping Yet Again because something caught my eye. At some point, I really should take some photography classes so I can better get what’s in my head into the image.

Thus, I wound my way up Old Highway 80, stopping every 6 or 8 feet. Sometimes, I let the GoPro handle it for me, though, and just dealt with the lower-quality captures.

A few more miles up the road, I passed what looked like a very interesting side road, turned around, and followed it. I’ve mentioned many times before that “Where does that road go?” is my very favorite question, and when I have the time, I usually indulge the curiosity. More often than not, I am rewarded with something I’d never have otherwise seen, but one of the inherent risks of that question is, “sometimes, the road goes absolutely nowhere interesting at all.” I gave up pursuit of this road after several miles of straightness and nothing interesting on the horizon. Back to Old Highway 80.

Near the Middle of Nowhere/Back of Beyond, I passed tiny hamlets with dirt roads ambitiously called “avenues” and absently wondered how one decides to call a dirt road an “avenue.” Why not the even-more-ostentatious “boulevard,” or the simple, humble, “road?”

I wound my way through the farms and homesteads, finding myself consistently running into dirt roads, the avoidance of which gradually herded me back toward a freeway, the 10 this time. It was getting on toward noon by this point, and I hadn’t gotten far. Considering my almost complete lack of sleep, I figured I should probably get going with a haste, as I would likely hit some kind of wall in the later afternoon and I had many miles to go.

With a sigh and a wave goodbye to backroads Americana, I allowed myself to be herded onto the 10 and began the long drone home. Still, the scenery was absolutely fantastic, better than anything back home in the still-frozen Midwest.

Because I had to stop more frequently than all of the big rig drivers, I passed the same trucks more than a few times as we all progressed West, and a few started waving as I passed them. I always enjoy the GoPro views of semis as I pass them – I can’t even say with any certainty why that is. Something about the perspective, maybe, or capturing a thing we’re all familiar with and know well, but don’t often take pictures of. Maybe, it’s just that there’s beauty in all things, somewhere.

Opportunities to appreciate the big trucks were more than “ample” for the duration of the journey. This was a common scenario, with about 0.5 mph differential between them:

Other visual treats:

More often than I care to admit, I ignore the “get gas when you see gas” rule of rriding in emote areas and play a little game I have come to think of as Gas Tank Roulette: Will I get to a gas station in time, or will I be stranded? LET’S FIND OUT.

Because it seemed like Civilization would be closer than not, I passed the gas station when I had seventy-some-odd miles left. As the range indicator ticked ever on downward, so did my hopes. But aha!! At 26 miles, a gas station sign! I pulled off the highway and found… an old, abandoned gas station that was now acting as an ad hoc rest area for truckers and as a fantastic business opportunity for lot lizards.

Thankfully, I had a cell signal and could Google the nearest station – 19 miles further down. My range indicator said 25 – no problem! I know, not necessarily from personal experience, purely hypothetically, mind you, that I can get a full 10 miles out of this bike even when the range indicator says “- – -” (subtext, “you effing, darling moron, FEED ME!”) so I was not concerned. Onward!

The vistas were stunning, but I was feeling a greater sense of urgency with each passing hour. I did remember to eat and hydrate.. once, at that much-needed gas station near the Matzner Tank Pavilion.

I am very, very bad at hydrating on a good day, and whilst traveling, it becomes an actual problem. The skin on the backs of my hands looked like that of an octogenarian. Whoops. Plus side, I didn’t have to stop to pee all day <Monty Python “yaayyyyy”> Wade and the Cowboy have somehow gotten me past my initial revulsion toward Pedialyte and its Mexican cohort, Electrolit. To me, these taste like slightly oily, weak Kool-Aid. However, the body demands what the body demands, and now my cells light up when I see this stuff, even if my mouth says “gak.” Or “hork,” if you prefer.

The far more interesting roads overpassing the freeway had such colorful, wonderful names vastly surpassing “351st Ave:” Sore Finger Road. Red Cloud Mine Road. Gold Nugget Road. Eagle Eye Road. Wiley’s Well Road. Gas Line Road… ok, maybe not that one so much. There were also roads with an international flare: S. Neighbours Boulevard.

As I passed through Quartzsite, I was enthralled with all the amazing-looking dirt riding to be had. Winding up, down, and around hills and valleys amidst the mountains… ohhh, we are definitely coming back here and bringing the skinny bikes. <drool>

As we approached the border, traffic began to thicken, as did the presence of surly drivers and overcast skies. In Arizona, I found most drivers to be Quite Polite, even courteous, about getting out of my way as soon as they possibly could, sometimes even aborting a pass they had just begun or were about to begin once they saw me in their rear-view mirrors. Amazing.

Oh, good! Construction! Lane closures! Not to worry, for I am on a motorcycle – sorry, four- and eighteen-wheeled pack-mates, I will be leaving you in my figurative dust.

It was about here where I remembered that I was in Arizona, not California, and that (technically speaking,) I wasn’t allowed to do this. Fortunately, most of the vehicles were California-based and understood this was a normal thing:

Waving “hello!” to California and “goodbye!” to low gas prices ($2.65 was the highest I saw,) I crossed the mighty Colorado, passed through the checkpoint (which seems much larger than when I went through that first time in 5,000-degree heat,) and focused all of my slightly waning attention on the increasingly aggressive drivers all around me.

Only once did a driver almost kill me, West of Indio: A guy driving his large family of (from what I could gather by their silhouettes) 12 in a black Dodge Caravan apparently had had just about enough of Lane #2 and abruptly hopped into Lane #3, where I just happened to be, and had been for considerable time. I neither zoomed nor sneaked up on him; he just wasn’t paying attention.

Reflexes and instincts are wonderful things. I’ve written about them previously, and they saved me again here. What do we do when this happens? Do we slam on the brakes? No; no, we do not. We peg the throttle. It all happened so fast, the GoPro only captured a few frames. “Gosh darn it,” (or words to that effect) you can almost hear me holler in my helmet, despite the wind noise. Link to video clip: HEY!!

The rest of the journey was Unpleasant. Traffic was crap, people were cranky, it was threatening to perhaps rain, and I was tired. Windmills, windmills, windmills, traffic, traffic, traffic,and oh, good, everything is backed up to hell and gone on the 10/79 intersection. For miles. Split, split, split, wait, wait, wait at the traffic light, and on down the 79… where people were INSAAAYYYYYYYYYNE. Holy balls am I ever glad I do not have to navigate that nonsense at rush hour on the daily. Kudos to anyone who does.

My brain had largely tuned out by the time I had fought off errant Cadillacs and F350s. I rolled into town, semi-familiar territory. Familiar, but… not quite what I thought I remembered. I stopped to text Perry and the Cowboy to give them a status update: “Traffic in Temecula at rush hour is a bastard,” something along those lines.

Why don’t I recognize anything better?!

I freaking lived in Temecula for a brief month or two, surely even this tired, I would be able to find my way through properly.

Narrator: But she was not in Temecula, no she was not! She was in Hemet, of course.

Shit.

I thanked the narrator for apprising me of my situation and muddled onward through Hemet’s rush hour tomfoolery, though I had to smile at this sight of a tiny hatchback towing a Husky on a tiny trailer:

On the 15, freakin’ finally, things were moving along well, even past Rancho California and the 79 intersections, until it wasn’t. Until it stopped entirely. I soon saw why, a sight which did not bring a smile:

For the poor, unfortunate souls on the northbound 15, this was terrible news: It was backed up past the 76 and almost to Escondido. The exit ramps were similarly log-jammed. It wasn’t a good time for anyone. From my quick glance, it looked like the rider was alive, at least, lying on his back, his knees bent.

I found myself in a somewhat similar traffic situation as I exited the HOV lanes near the 52 (please pardon the giant bug splat.)

However, 20 minutes or so later, I found myself arriving home exactly as the sun set – getting home before dark was my goal, mission barely accomplished.

I contemplated leaving everything on the bike until morning and just dragging my weary bones to bed, but even in my diminished-capacity state, I knew that was a terrible idea, for the luggage would likely still be on the bike to this day.

I am not a strong chore-doer. I procrastinate better’n most. This will likely come as a huge shock, but domesticity never took with me. If you were ever, for some crazy random reason, to wonder what the inside of my house looks like, I assure you – you can come nowhere near the enormity of disappointment you would experience upon learning the truth.

Those of you with especially delicate sensibilities will wish to skip the rest of this paragraph, or at least gird your loins before sallying forth into it. It will be safe in the next paragraph, I promise. Avert your eyes now: The inside of my house looks like a Cycle Gear had a three-way with a Joann Fabrics and an REI, whilst a dive shop and a camera shop watched from the sidelines.

Ok, we’re back and clean once again.

There’s a lot going on, visually, in my house. Visually, mind you, not aesthetically. Aesthetically, there is nothing going on in here whatsoever, because my goodness who has that kind of time and energy? Knick-knacks? AAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA, they require dusting, something I vaguely recall doing once, circa 1978.

Mid-Century Modern meets Post-Graduate Chic? That’s it, baby, that’s right where I am. We’ve got your Motorcycle Piles and Clutter, your Photography Piles and Clutter, your Camping, Diving, Computer, Clothing, Crafting, Tools, and so on Piles and Clutter… boy howdy, it’s exhausting just looking at the list there, let alone trying to do anything about it. I need a 70-foot storage unit and about three months of free time to get this insanity sorted.

One small example: Rumor has it there is a dining room table under here. Somewhere.

Not one, not two, not even three, but four tank bags. Weary sigh.

Rather than go immediately to bed, I heeded the hunger noises emanating from my tummy and whipped up some Atakilt Wat, a delicious Ethiopian cabbage stew that even I cannot screw up. I can cook, as unlikely as that may seem, I just haven’t often cooked in the last… 10 years. Or so.

Approximately.

This (reasonably short) anecdote demonstrates how undomesticated I actually am.

My landlord, bless his toothless, garage-dwelling heart, often brings me a portion of whatever Vegan delicacy he’s whipped up that day. I thought I’d return the favor and bring him a big bowl of the Wat. As I handed it to him and he inhaled the amazing aromatics of the Berbere and veggies, he looked at me in amazement: “Erin! You made this yourself?!” and this is the really telling part, “you cut up the veggies and everything?!”

That’s right – he was shocked I cut up vegetables. And then cooked them.

Sigh.

Later, when I went back to fetch my bowl, he said, “Erin, this is the most amazing cabbage I have ever had, I’m not even kidding. You’ve been holding out on me! [To be fair, I accidentally had been.] I thought all you knew how to do was burn butternut squash!” Double sigh.

Historically, that has been true – Chuck doesn’t have an oven, so I bake or roast things for him as needed… and then I often forget I’m doing that. The house is insanely sound-insulated, so I do not hear the oven timer going off, and, being Lance Corporal Chaos, I typically forget to set a nearer-by alarm.

Ah, well. Speaking of Landlord Chuck, he’s just brought me some black beans for lunch, so I’m off to shove that into my mouth hole. Delicately, of course; lady-like mouth-hole stuffing.

Eh, who are we kidding? DOWN THE HATCH, NOM NOM NOM.