I was a busy little fellow yesterday.
I say yesterday, even though I started this entry in plenty of time to just go ahead and call it today. It’s that whole fall asleep in recliner / wake up at 1 am / read every blog in the publishable world until 4 in the morning / make belated entry syndrome. Ever get that way? Happens to me constantly.
One thing I conspicuously did not do on my second Tuesday in November was vote. We’ve got two asshats running for governor down here in Swampland, and that’s about it so far as things to vote for goes.
I’m all for voting, I don’t think I’ve missed many chances to have my say in democracy. But I am getting tired of choices that fall into the ‘lesser of two evils’ pile of woe. And when both of the lesser asshats, as it were, are so spectacularly full of unrefined bullshit? Well, I ain’t wastin’ my time and gas driving over to the polls just to write in Nixon’s name for governor. Again.
So I went to the Watering Hole instead, and bought a beer for a Veteran. I consider that time and gas well spent.
Then I went and looked at one of these.
God help me, I’m thinking about it. When Stu left the Corporation we made the decision to sell the mighty box truck, part and parcel of the Outfoxed Fleet. Which left me, the sole survivor, inheriting the F250 that I’d been driving all along anyway. Now an F250 is a very fine vehicle. Outfitted with a work shell and stuffed with tools it makes a statement as a good outlaw carpenter work wagon.
But coupled with the Dwarf Garage and my ever increasing acquisition of toolage and general stuff, I’m just flat out of room. Having that box truck was like having a shop on wheels, you could pack everything in the world in there. I miss it.
Also, for reasons I’ll not get into just yet, Ben the Youngest is getting set to drive again come January. Which, as befits an 18 year old, is a dandy thing to do. That whole school and work thing, you know. I can tell you without qualm that his mother, myself, and several dozen of his friends are heartily sick of driving him around.
Ally has been wading in with some frequency on this subject. “You do realize that in order for you to quit harping about driving him around, it will be necessary for him to have a vehicle.” She says these things with such grace. It makes me want to believe her, it does.
“Yeah, and who will be supplying said vehicle, hmmm? Might it, oh maybe it’s just me but . . . might it just happen to be . . . you and I? Aren’t we the one’s who just now managed to dispose of a fleet of cars?”
It’s true. A year ago I looked out in the driveway and street and realized that, somehow, I laid ownership to 5 vehicles, and they were all stationed right there in front of me. If I’d had some cheap vinyl flags and a picture of me, smiling in a cowboy hat with ‘Come See The Colonel! We Finance!’ strung across the yard it would have been easier to swallow.
But the girls moved out, we dumped Ben’s car on a youth who appeared with cash in hand and I took down the picture of the Colonel when we moved. We were back to a manageable 2 vehicles. And yes, thanks, they’re paid for, and I ain’t sellin’ either of them.
I happen to love that F250. It would be like sellin’ one of the kids.
Of course, if in doing so I happened to free up a bedroom to stash more stuff in . . . naw.
Anyway, I’m slow to come to these ideas, and I knew that selling Ally on it might be a chore, so I took her out for Mexican last week and got her drunk on Margaritas before I laid it all out for her input (I didn‘t really, but after two drinks she was close, and it makes for a better story in any event). “Honey I’m toying with the idea of getting another work truck, a bigger one, and letting Ben drive the F250 for a while.”
“Baybee, thash a wonnerful ideeea!”
So maybe it’ll work after all. Like solving most of my problems, throwing money at them never seems to be the wrong choice.
I happened to run into the new trendy restaurant yesterday afternoon and had the camera, so here’s the mystery Hostess Stand I was referring to in the entry a couple days ago.
Still makes me giggle, it does. “Make it black and put some mouldings on it,” he says. Bwahahaha! Never give the reins to a carpenter, be it draught horse or nag.
They’ll want to turn it into a thoroughbred every time.
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