So we made it to Virginia and after a few days of very grey skies and a refreshing chill in the air, it totally warmed up to near 60 degrees and then rained. Sheesh. And today?

The freaking sun is out. What’s up with that? You would think that when you fly across the damn country for the holidays at least it could pretend like it was going to snow. Feh.

That list I made before I left had to get done or we wouldn’t have been able to get on the plane. So no problem there. When the shuttle driver arrived at the front door to collect us, the house was decent, the presents for the older boys were snuggled under the tree and as an added bribe to them to take care of the house while we were gone, we had the RT open one of his presents we couldn’t take…a gamer’s computer (HP Pavilion Elite) with a 22” flat panel monitor and a humongous graphics card (XFX GeForce 8800 GT XXX) and I have to swagger around a bit when I say that even though I have absolutely NO idea what I’m talking about) that had to have its own power source (or some kind of a fan thingy installed). We had it installed before we left the store (Fry’s Electronics, thank you very much and NOT BEST BUY Bwhahahahahahaha Losers…) by a sales/tech guy who was completely cool, talked the entire time he was putting it in and answered everyone else’s questions at the same time — including “The Wife” on his cell a couple of times regarding being home on time for a change. The guy works 16 hour days. Amazing. We came home with a fist full of rebates I now have to complete so we can actually have a few checks in the mail at some point in the next century. I’ve done them before and I swear we never get anything out of them — most likely because I forgot to cross a “t” or dot an “i.”

Now the cool thing about this computer is that it also functions as a TV, so that helps us out a bit in the area of ensuring that we can all be in separate rooms watching different programs and never see each other ever again. Trick. AND (drum roll…) now neither the MoH or the RT has to use my Mac. WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOT.

Seriously. It’s mine, mine, mine. ALLLLLLLLLLL mine and they don’t get to TOUCH it.

EVER. So I’m sure the two older boys (okay, so they’re men, but you know how that goes when you’re the mom, right?) are enjoying it while the RT is away. And you can imagine the RT is sweating a bit because he had to leave it at home and is now stuck in this female infested house for the holidays. My sister does have a Wii, though, so people have been having a blast with that. I haven’t succumbed, but most likely will tonight after a couple glasses of wineski.

Enough of that nonsense.

So I just wanted to let you know we were all alive and well, have celebrated my mom’s 70th birthday in true style (there wasn’t a fancy dress in the house…) and took some photos I’ll have to try and share later. Totally hilarious. Oh, and “we” constitutes my sister’s family (husband and two younger daughters) her oldest daughter and her boyfriend (who left Monterey, CA to live here instead and are holed in upstairs indefinitely..) my mother (who’s living in the basement sort of indefinitely, but actually more like temporarily…) a dog, and three cats who all have to be kept away from one another. Oh. And us. Quite the household.

Today, more lists are in order — but they’re the lists I’m good at that include miles of ingredients and a sequence of what to prepare in which order. With one last trip to the grocery store (there have already been two…) we’ll be ready to hunker down for a fun night of dessert making, toasting (instead of the roasting we did to my mom last night), and preparing for our holiday breakfast and then dinner later.

The MoH and RT are out today with my seester doing the turismo thang in D.C. I’ll venture out on Wednesday (which is our wedding anniversary) and make like a tourist myself. Maybe I’ll even twist the MoH’s arm a bit for a swanky dinner or something.

In the meantime, I sincerely hope you are warm, doing what fills your heart — regardless of what it is — and that you are healthy.

Thanks for visiting my little space in the Bloggosphere so often this past year. You have helped to take me from the exhausted, burnt out, frazzled, and completely flattened person that I was, to a person who laughs much more than she used to, and who has also recovered something she thought she’d lost for good — writing.

YOU ROCK!

It’s 10:03 am and the first stream of game day monologue has been uttered downstairs. “Okay. It’s time. Let’s go.” And a more quiet, less assertive mumble that seems to have had something to do with the kick off.

But the MoH’s ready. He had his official jersey pulled over his ancient Eddie Bauer waffle weave tee.

And the Gap jammies Santa gave to him a few years ago.

It’s currently 47 degrees F in Paradise on this Sunday morning after a few days of semi bracing rain.

And we are reh-dee-4-sum-FOOT.BALLLLLLLLLLL.

“INTERCEPTED! Antonio Gates. Ninth interception this year. OH! MY! Don’t throw it to that side of the field. Don’t throw it…”

I guess it’s safe to go down there and read the Sunday paper in happy sports land. It’ must be his matching game day attire.

“They’re just gonna run a freakin’ blitz until you guys do something different. COMEON!”

Well, maybe not.

“ComeON. When are you gonna play like a professional quarter back. Pull your head outta your butt.”

Phil Rivers should heed the MoH’s advice.

The Chargers should know about the dedication of this particular fan.

And his game day suit.

I love December. I’m sure you’re thinking it’s made easier because I’ve never had to deal with snow and sludge, freezing temperatures and pipes that burst. Those things are rarely experienced in places like San Diego, Key West and the south of Spain. But living as I have in the warmer climes my entire life has only my heart grow fonder.

And speaking of hearts, mine is wired for anything that can be even remotely construed as hopelessly romantic — Jane Austin, The Goodbye Girl, Sleepless in Seattle, Harry Nilhsson’s “Without You”, Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s Sonnets from the Portuguese…Dorothy and Toto…I can’t help it.
Oddly, all my loveliest swoonable memories can be traced back to December. The MoH and I became inextricably involved in December of 1987. For me, it was almost as painful as an unrequited crush in junior high. Thankfully, my life with the MoH has had a lovely outcome — one that has endured 20 years.

I get sappy when I hear certain songs and have warm memories of going to movies, or sitting on the same side of the table in tacky restaurants sipping margaritas and holding hands. Doing crossword puzzles, taking long walks, and window shopping in malls filled our spare time because they were free and neither of us had any money.

We also wrote love letters to one another.

I still have them, and get a bit squirmy thinking of the pages that are raw with emotion. It’s a wonder they’ve survived me, always on the verge of ridding myself of anything that could be classified as embarassing to myself. But I tuck them away each time I happen across them, glad that they mark a time that mattered so much. Some day, they’ll belong to the RT so he can be mortified that his parents felt the way they do about one another.

When I first knew the MoH, I remember my understandably horrified mother questioning the extent to which I might be in love with “that boy” one night while I was ironing in her house where I was living with my two older boys, not quite 5 and 6. The MoH is nearly seven years younger than I, but no, I wouldn’t have classified him as a boy.

And I did fancy myself in love with him.

Still. We can’t help ourselves.

It has made all the difference.

It’s called perspective. And I wouldn’t trade it for the world.

It rained in Paradise yesterday. Now don’t all fall over at the same time with that news, stupendous as it is. Not only did it rain — it poured much of the day: a record-setting .73”. I can’t remember how long it’s been since it rained enough to do more than dampen the top layer of soil in my flower bed. But yesterday water filled the gutters and at many points during the gloriously soggy day, moved in sheets across the road as the wind whipped the palm trees into a frenzy, fronds no longer sheltering the birds that normally perch there.

The MoH called from work to ask what I was doing. He wondered whether I had popped open the garage door, settled in a chair and bundled in layers to watch the show. He knows I love this weather. What he struggles with is being practical — as in, too practical. Overly, cautiously so. I have thin streaks of practicality, and depending on the situation, will listen to my inner nagging voice that chastises me I really shouldn’t or better not.

Or, sometimes not listen.

Last night, he and I ventured out in the weather. We thought we’d have a quick dinner and begin our leisurely search for gift ideas for Christmas. I’ve learned that it doesn’t really do any good to try and get this done earlier in the year, because he likes waiting. He enjoys thinking about it, talking about it, and then going to purchase after he’s found the perfect gift for each person on his list. I like that about him, because although the routine does lend itself to quench his selective need for systemic order, it’s also a little messy around the edges because he waits so long.

But this year, we are celebrating our 20th wedding anniversary. I know. It’s a doozie. We were married the day after Christmas, so have always sort of collapsed our acknowledgment of one another into a dinner out in January, or a quick weekend trip before tax season exerts its ugly coils around our free time.

But this is a mile stone. How many people today can not only say that they’ve been married that long, but actually like one another. Look forward to doing things together. Love one another. Act sappy about it.

So over dinner last night, the MoH begins with, “I didn’t want to talk about his last night, so I waited to bring it up until tonight since I knew we’d be out and about.” And I knew what he was going to bring up, because I always know. “I was going to buy you something very expensive for your anniversary,” he continued, and then proceeded to wonder whether I’d prefer something for the house instead, or perhaps a trip somewhere. I could tell he was struggling with the topic and was thinking aloud more than talking with me. The MoH doesn’t like to spend a lot of money. Ever. And although I don’t have that particular problem, I do have that practical voice in me that has been in full scream for the better part of a year now because I cast my former income to the wind to sow the seeds of possibility for our future life. Sounds good, doesn’t it? But still. It has been quite the generous gift to myself and I wallow in it daily, knowing how fortunate I am to have this time.

As I listened to him, I had to be careful. I had to make sure he couldn’t see that ridiculous, tiny piece of the stereotypical girl left inside me after all these years that, no matter how much she doesn’t want or like or have to admit it — wishes for a fairy tale.

I know.

And you thought I was Matilda the Hun.

I did too. And I am, most of the time. But I guess not this close to a 20th wedding anniversary.

And the funny thing is, it’s not the “expensive” aspect of the whole thing that I’m interested in. Truly. Unfortunately, lovely things can cost quite a bit of money. They don’t have to, though. Not if one thinks about it for a time, savoring the possibilities.

Right now, I’m not comfortable with the whole “costs a lot of money” part of this. The sprinklers in the flower bed don’t work. The lights on the patio don’t work. My car needs a tune up badly, the carpets need to be torn out and replaced with wood flooring so the MoH can breathe in this house. It needs a fresh coat of paint…there’s annual physicals to pay for, and the RT’s college tuition is just around the corner.

I don’t want to discuss what I want him to give me for our 20th wedding anniversary. “I know you wouldn’t turn down a nice ring if you got one,” he concludes after other possibilities have been pondered. No, I probably wouldn’t, but I’d been attempting to explain to him that the idea of a diamond to signify our time together didn’t quite fit anymore. I use my hands so much and don’t get out amongst the masses. And was the purpose of wearing such a gift to show others? No, that just seemed all wrong. It would be shiny, and throw fiery shards of light against my face, distracting me from mundane tasks, but dust motes wafting in a stuffy room already do that and cost far less.

If the MoH happened to surprise me by capturing one of those motes, enclosing it in a crystal box and then tell me he knew how much I love the idea of a moment suspended in time, I’d sigh knowing he’d thought about that perfect gift, just for me.

See? Fairy tales. Actually, it’s the idea of a fairy tale.

Better than a sharp stick in the eye, as my mother would say. Yes, most things are, Mom.

And it’s especially better than having to ride in a smelly pumpkin to have a guy you’ve never met try and fit a glass shoe on your foot.

I’d have to wear a party dress to do that, and you know how I feel about those.

Still, Breakfast at Tiffany’s would be quite romantic. And DVD’s are cheap.

P.S.  Have you nominated by food blog& Veracity" target="_blank"> Sass & Veracity for one (or more :)) of the 2007 Food Blog Awards, yet? 

Guess what? The MoH has finally decided that he needs to exercise. Actually, he already knew that, but you know how that goes, right? Woo-Hoo! I’ve found another exercise buddy. And we are making some food and drink committments, too. I know you’re sick of hearing me yammer on about this and then nothing happens, so whatever. Fine. But still. We’re on it. We ARE, okay?

What happened to my VBF? She works umpteen gazillion hours a week and has decided to go to boot camp everyday at o-dark-thirty. No boot camp for me. I couldn’t do a push up if I tried. Just thinking about it pains me.

So the MoH and I went for our first walk Sunday. He didn’t even break a sweat. I, on the other hand, was sweating and huffing and puffing. It’s so annoying. But at least I was up and out. The air was still a bit smoky smelling and by the time we were done, my sinuses were stinging. I’m thinking it was probably worse to sit next to those happy smokers in Las Vegas, though. But the only jackpot I’d hit on a walk would be to find a penny someone dropped in the road. The promise of good fortune is always lovely.

We didn’t start our conscientious eating until yesterday because we were still recovering from those Bostinis I made. Jeez. But Monday, we were both on our best behavior as well. I ate so much spinach yesterday I swore I whinnied at the RT at one point. We’re packing in the veggies, and going easy on highly processed carbs. No extra servings for the MoH, one Coke a day for him, and two measly ounces of wine for me. Exercise daily. Water, vitamins, and all that rot.

I’m already looking for healthy recipes to bake. I have to cook. Have. To. But I will not be putting Splenda in anything. Ew-ah.

So yesterday was good. The MoH got home at a decent hour and then as planned, headed out the door to go work out at the gym in our development that we pay handsomely for and rarely use. As I put my shoes on to get ready for my walk, I could hear his car start up and shook my head thinking he was off to a terrific start. The gym is a four minute walk from our house. Jeez.

My walk takes me right past the gym, and I could see his persnickety car in the lot along with all the others. I was glad I wasn’t with them all and strode past, knowing the sunset would be spectacular. The air had lost its acrid smell and a pleasant breeze was blowing.

I love to walk. The problem is (and has been for years) that my shins always hurt. Or my feet. Add years to that and other aches and pains come and go. Right now, I have a serious problem with tennis elbow. And I’d love to blame it on playing tennis, but that’s not the case since I barely know what one looks like. It really kicked up when we were swimming this past summer and has only worsened. My friends chide me that it’s all the blogging I do. Fine. Why doesn’t my right had or arm hurt? Huh? It’s so tiresome.

But yesterday, NOTHING HURT! (Not counting my elbow, which I finally iced thanks to this site, so now I can officially call myself a cyberchondriac.) Totally amazing. I was able to zip along, push myself, enjoy the dark lavendar clouds tinged with peach change against the setting sun to a sooty grey in a field of deepening sapphire blue. Spectacular. Right under three miles in 25 minutes. Not bad. Stinky, but not bad at all. And I beat the MoH home.

A good way to cruise into the month of November, don’t you think?

And NaBloPoMoHo-Ho-Ho is around the corner. Blogging every day. Um, like this isn’t something I do already? I’m going to one up it, cut the length of these posts, and work on my food blog since I usually only complete two a week there. Is that cheating?

You need to sign up for NaBloMo. Come on. Click on those pink lips up there and join in. I only have two friends and the more the merrier. It will be fun. Except I haven’t quite figured out how I’m going to handle the week off we have around here before Thanksgiving. Hmmm…

I’ll think about it later.

Gotta go. I’m off to a friends to cook. Not for me. For her. She’s expecting and we’re cooking and freezing dinners so she and her huzbink can take it easy after she delivers. They need to. She was having difficulty conceiving. Tried everything with no success and so decided to adopt a beautiful baby boy this past June. And guess what? Yep. She’s due in December. She’s been off her feet for some time now, and so is in the stretch. Life’s funny, isn’t it?

And if this post wasn’t the biggest load of unfocused blathering, I don’t know what is.

This morning, I could hear the MoH’s voice coming from the closet, but couldn’t quite make out what he was saying. I think it’s a passive form of control, actually, expecting the one you most love in life, the soul who makes your sun rise and set each day to get up, come to you and inquire gently, “What was that you were saying dear?” But I don’t, because I know how this works.

He soon walked out of the closet and stopped to look at himself in the mirrors that are on the closet doors. I noticed the black, corduroy baseball hat on his head before he returned to the closet. “So brown, black, and grey are neutrals, right?” he called out, returning quickly with yet another baseball hat perched on his head and stopped again in front of the mirrors. It was a dark Navy blue with a Yankees logo on the front. I was surprised it was even on his head and couldn’t remember where he got it.

“Yes,” I confirm, remembering that he and I had watched What Not to Wear last night before heading up to bed, and that this is exactly what Stacy and Clinton were trying to teach that Philosophy doctoral candidate who had absolutely no clue about clothes. “Tan, beige, and khaki colors, too,” I continued as he headed back into the closet, evidently not liking the second hat either. He emerged with a third, black hat that kept him standing and appraising longer than the two previous choices. It was an SDSU hat sporting the fierce face of Monty Montezuma, the Aztec’s old mascot. “What are you doing?” I asked him, watching him begin to smile because I’d found him out.

“Well, I don’t like this one because it’s pointy on top,” he said, raising his arm and extending his index finger to point directly down toward the offending crown of the cap. He was right.

“It makes you look like a poindexter,” I said, because that’s my job when he preens, and I’ve been doing it for years. I noticed that he’d put on his blue grey fuzzy lined sweats purchased at Old Navy years ago, and had chosen a waffle weave two-toned steel grey and black Nike long-sleeved tee, pulled over a white tee. It’s what I call his Spock shirt because it reminds me of the Star Trek uniforms from the old TV show. It was all coming together now. He was actually trying to apply his learning from the show last night. Unbelievable. I’d tell him to go without a hat, but learned long ago that the hat comes out when he feels he’s having a bad hair day. I’ve never quite been able to figure this out, because there’s just not that much hair. I’ve thought about encouraging him to shave his head, but it’s kind of lumpy here and there.

I went into the closet to look at the stacks of baseball hats with him and knew which he’d choose. It was a longer billed cap with a more shallow crown. A soft worn khaki green with a golf logo. His favorite. “It looks like you’re going out in a boat,” I told him, but I like that hat. He smiled and pushed past me to again survey the fruits of his fashion labor, and admired his reflection. I could tell he thought he looked cute, satisfied with his artfully mussed appearance.

“Yes, that one works,” I told him. It’s a neutral. It doesn’t have to be grey or blue or black. You look fine, I confirmed as he headed downstairs to leave for the office on this maybe final Saturday he’d have to work for a while.

He’s in the stretch, and this must have been his way of celebrating. Choosing just the right type of slacker wear to crunch numbers on the weekend when nobody’s around.

I should probably email Stacy and Clinton.

He never trusts what I have to say about his clothes.

Sometimes, life throws a few tacks in our paths when we should stop, take notice, and reassess. I’m probably not one to be discussing how to handle these particular opportunities since I’m currently the poster child for What Not to Do. I am better now, though, at recognizing the tacks in others’ paths so that they can avoid problems that will only make things worse.

The MoH is swamped at work right now. Buried. Shot. Flatter than a pancake. His tongue’s dragging on the ground. So unfortunately, his optimistic, “I’ll be home by early afternoon” this past Friday didn’t pan out. It rarely does, as he’s usually the last one in the office taking care of what needs to get done. When he did finally arrive, he let me know that he’d be working both Saturday and Sunday. Saturday is normal, but Sunday? During football season? Like I said. Swamped.

He set the alarm for 7AM, but he’s stuck in that cycle of not being able to sleep because he thinks about work while he’s sleeping, then wakes up. I guess he was awake for over three hours, so the alarm snooze button was hit several times over the course of an hour Saturday morning before he dragged himself to the shower, and then without making his morning cup of tea, went down to the garage telling me he’d be home after 2:00 or so.

Some time passed, and I could hear noises coming from the garage. It sounded like the MoH hadn’t left yet, so I tentatively went to find out what was going on, and he opened the door right as I was ready to turn the knob.

“What are you still doing here?” I asked, cheerfully, because I’m never sure what kind of reaction I’ll get. I glance behind him to notice his car still in its spot in the garage, and the hood and trunk open. “What’s wrong with your car?” I continued, wanting to help because the MoH is not mechanically inclined in any way on this earth. I know he could be, but he’s just not interested, and that’s fine with me because he throws things occasionally when he’s forced to deal with small parts that don’t look like numbers. “What’s it doing?”

“It’s not doing anything. That’s why I’m still here,” he told me, more resigned than pissed off.

“Get in and start it,” I told him, nudging him back to the car. He complied and instead of an engine turning over and the resulting low growl of the mean, lean, driving machine, all we got was a series of loud clicks.

“The battery’s dead,” I said, because it sounded important, but I found myself thinking it could also be the alternator. Ugh. Or the starter. No, the starter makes a funny sound when it goes, but it had been so many years since I’d experienced that, I went back to the more attractive battery diagnosis instead.

“Do we have jumper cables?” he asked, looking at me and knowing what my answer would be.

“Uh. No,” I told him, remembering that when my oldest son was “en casa,” we were completely spoiled, because he completely understands cars. He’s the one who would have the jumper cables. Not the MoH or myself. I sighed and asked him to get out his car manual being the nerd I am, thinking that somehow, the manual would provide some insight. At the same time, I couldn’t help but think that the MoH was just not supposed to go to work that day. It hadn’t been more than a year that his car was completely gone over after the conclusion of his lease, and presented as a “certified pre-owned” brand-spankin’ sorta new car. And since we were the former owners, what could be wrong?

What is up with the way car engines look now days? Everything has some kind of a cover over it and is so tightly packed together, none of it resembles anything recognizable. I used to be able to find a battery in my old Honda Civic and my ‘72 Jeep CJ-5. I knew where the alternator was, the carburator, the radiator…Now I can sort of tell what the engine is, but it’s covered in some kind of a case, too. By the time my daydream ended, the MoH was searching through his car manual trying to find where the battery was. It was a bit sad, the two of us standing there, feeling like we were supposed to know something — anything — about automobiles.

He ended up digging in his wallet for his Roadside Assistance card and headed into the house before I told him to take my car and that I’d take care of his cute little, very high maintenance vehicle that shouldn’t have any need for any attention. Ever. Especially considering that my trusty car is in dire need of a check up and just keeps plugging along. How long has the “Service Needed” light been glowing on the dash?

I called the Roadside Assistance number sheepishly wondering if one’s garage counts as “roadside,” and feeling very incapable. The woman who answered the phone was the goddess of all customer service representatives as far as I’m concerned. I’m still in awe just thinking about the experience. I don’t think I’ve ever been called ma’am, or Mrs. W. as many times as during that phone call. N. I. C. E. I was told a service vehicle would be out within 60 minutes and that he would jump start the car. If that didn’t work, I was to call her back so she could send a flatbed tow truck out to pick up the car and take it to have it looked at. I wondered if they’d send a blanket to keep it warm on its ride as well.

Well, the guy got there in 20 minutes — just enough time for me to put real clothes on, brush my hair, and slap a bit o’ make up on. I didn’t want to scare him off with my usual hag state. The car started right up, he told me to let it run for about 20 minutes, and then things would be fine. I didn’t have to sign anything and was told to have a nice day. Okay. Roger that.

But I did make the very conscious mistake of deciding to go down the hill to Trader Joe’s even though I’ve never liked driving the MoH’s car. Even though I don’t know where any of the buttons are. The store is only five minutes away, and I needed things for a friend’s luncheon, so down the hill I went, making it half way there before my constructively pessimistic brain began its litany of reprimands about:

1) choosing to use the car when we weren’t really certain whether anything serious was wrong; 2) leaving the Roadside Assistance card on the kitchen counter right next to the car manual; and 3) having a cell phone most likely hidden and uncharged in the depths of my purse, and wouldn’t that be a bummer if the car didn’t start and I had absolutely nothing to help myself.

I enjoyed my shopping time at Trader Joe’s anyway. Right up until the car wouldn’t start after I’d loaded all my groceries into it. Yes. Then.

Since I’m the epitome of a calm human now, I had nothing to be upset about. No pressing issues, no stresses or strains. Absolutely not a one. So after taking about ten minutes to find how to hook my cell phone adapter to the cigarette lighter and smiling the entire time, I tried to call the MoH to tell him my news. There was enough juice in the battery to operate the windows, dash readouts, and so I knew I’d be able to use my phone. The MoH had put his cell on message, so didn’t have to listen to me tell him about my morning adventure so I called my VBF who was supposed to be getting ready for the luncheon (no, not crustless sandwiches and tea) for our mutual friend.

She had jumper cables.

It took her a while, and in the time I waited, I began to worry that she couldn’t find them, or that she was trying to call me, but didn’t have my cell number. None of my friends have my cell number, because I don’t really use it. I know. Stupid.

I sat there, beginning to think of alternate plans, like guarding the empty parking stall to my right which was close to the battery. Luckily, I had watched the technical service guy that morning and at least was armed with a modicum of possibly worthwhile information. But then two females pulled into the space, sitting there a while discussing a drama from their Friday night. Bummer.

Plan B was to call the RT and have him read me the Roadside Assistance number, and they could send a tow truck to the parking lot to get the MoH’s car. I could have my VBF take my groceries to my house, and I could wait for the tow truck. Then I could walk home since I had my tennies on and god knows needed the exercise. If that isn’t making lemonade outta lemons, I don’t know what is.

But my VBF pulled up behind me right about the time the two females came out of the store, so things were looking up. We’d get the MoH’s persnickety car jump started, I’d be able to make the treats for the luncheon, and we’d figure out what to do about the car later.

As Scarlett O’Hara said, “Tomorrow is another day.” Right? And one would think that this situation would be much easier a Southern Belle having to eat potatoes out of the field and saving Tara, wouldn’t one?

Well, fiddle-dee-dee. I couldn’t figure out how to open the MoH’s hood. My VBF couldn’t figure it out, either. So that got her wondering if he could open her own. We had already begun to giggle because it was a bit embarrassing. But at least she had her car manual.

She didn’t, however, have her glasses, and she’s more blind than I am. Even in the sunlight. At least I can see in the sun. With my arms extended as far as they can and my head tilted back so I can squint down my nose at the small print.

I called the MoH to find out where the hood latch was, and thankfully, he answered his cell. He quickly let me know where the release was inside the car that would allow me to release the latch in the grill. I told him not to worry, that I’d figure things out, and to go back to work.

When I got off the phone and went to help my VBF find her own hood latch, a nice middle-aged couple who had come to Trader Joe’s expecting a pleasant morning of grocery shopping and not two intelligent women fiddling with their cars, were headed over in our direction. “Can we help?” and “Pop the hood,” began their offers of help. But we laughed and said we didn’t know where the hood latch was. So she got on her cell to call her husband, and about the time that she was opening the driver side door to follow his directions, another young Indian couple came up, the man saying in his musical accent, “the release is usually right next to the door beneath…” he clearly knew what was going on and headed over to figure it out. And so did his wife, because by the time my VBF had ended the conversation with her husband, the woman had popped the hood. Hilarious.

But then we had to find the battery. So out came the manual again. The young couple couldn’t help us here, but after locating the battery — in a bizarre place behind the back seat? and talking about repositioning her car so we could hook up the jumper cables, the young man asked, “So if you need a jump, I can do that.”

We both looked at each other and laughed, because somehow until that point, no one had thought to ask that very simple question.

“She doesn’t need a jump, I do,” I said, surprising the young man, because through all the commotion of trying to get her hood open, and find the battery, I guess he thought that I was trying to help her. Goodness.

So they popped their hood, spent some time trying to get the cover off their battery as my VBF remarked that all the casing on car engines must be some attempt to force us to need mechanics for the simplest things. You know, like finding your battery. And hooking up the jumper cables.

The Moh’s finnicky little car started right up. Gushing with thanks to the good samaritans who were headed in to finally do their shopping, I quickly headed for home before something else could happen. After unloading the groceries, I left the motor running a good 40 minutes before shutting it off, letting it rest for five minutes, then trying it again to see if it would start.

I did. Hmmm…did I not let it run long enough before heading down to the store?

When the MoH arrived home from work several hours later, I had him try it again, but reminded him to let it run again to recharge if necessary. All went well. Things were fine.

Until this morning when he went out to the garage to go to work.

So there it sits. Waiting for later.

Sometimes you just need to pay attention to the signs.