Apparantly you can sprain your jaw.
Last Wednesday (you know, T minus one) there was no school. So DD stayed home and "packed her stuff". I called her about halfway through my shift to remind her that before we could leave for Grandma's house, all the trash had to be taken out and the kitchen thoroughly cleaned. I should have just left right then, when she told me that she couldn't take out the trash, because the outside bins were full. But I didn't listen to that mother's intuition. She called me awhile later and said she was "finished", and could she please go to her friend's house until I got home. Again, I should have gone home. I didn't.
When my shift (full of even stoopider and crayzier people than usual) ended I went home, expecting to load up Moby Dick (did I forget to mention that I'd been driving the white Cadillac since Halloween?) and get going on up to Rexburg. DD wasn't home, but all her stuff was hanging out next to my front door. I looked a bit askance at it as I unlocked the door and rushed upstairs to use my very own, private ladies' room (see previous post). I proceeded to round up all the trash and take it out myself, because I never leave the house for more than a day without removing the trash and making sure the kitchen is clean.
~~Dun dun DUN~~
The outside trash cans were all lined up neatly, ready to be taken away by the City of Logan. They didn't look stuffed to the gills; their lids were barely pushed up. I opened a lid, ready to throw my Hefty bag in. I saw clothing. And books. And videocassettes. And appliances. And lamps. And red.
The DD was able to hear me tell her to come home from two blocks away without the benefit of Cingular.
She decided (for the first time in about ever) that discretion was the better part of valour, and that she had better help me remove all non-trash from the trash bins in a very timely manner. This done, we proceeded to wash two loads of laundry, take out every trash can in the house, and get that kitchen the cleanest it's been since we moved in. And then we loaded Moby Dick.
I don't really like driving. I prefer driving a standard to an automatic, because if I'm going to be stuck behind the wheel, at least I want to be entertained by having something to do. Clutching and shifting, preferably while eating, drinking, or talking on the phone, qualifies as entertaining. I can drive with my knees for several miles, when need be. I totally want to drive on the Autobahn and see what I'm capable of at 120 mph.
Moby Dick is a car that our family was really grateful to get. He came to live with my folks right after my uncle died. It had belonged to my aunt, and it was her errand-running outfit. He's a two-door Cadillac El Dorado, in pearl white. At age 38, I felt a lot conspicuous driving it, even if it were for only a month while my cute little beluga whale (white Ford Escort) was being convinced to keep going for just a few more weeks.
Ol Moby has been feeling his age the past little while. He chose to manifest it by refusing to warm the interior of the car, on the coldest day of the year so far. It takes two and a half hours to get to Rexburg from Logan, mostly going the speed limit. I hate being cold. Once I'm cold, it takes a lot for me to get warm again. I clenched my jaw the whole two point five hours.
It's been a week now, and I am still breakfasting on 600 mg of Advil, with a 10am chaser of Tylenol, followed by a 1pm second round of Advil. (Rinse and repeat.) And copious amounts of Diet Coke and chocolate. (And don't think I haven't noticed that I can buy Diet Coke Plus in Idaho, but not in Utah.) I've returned Moby Dick to his parking space in Rexburg, and retrieved my cute little beluga whale and have been quite entertained by driving it around town this week.
It's for sale. Won't pass Utah state inspection, but Idaho doesn't care. I hope the car I get in PA will be a standard. I like shifting.