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And, just like that, I’m on the production schedule at a Ford plant somewhere.

Even though the build date isn’t until February 16th, I can’t imagine it’ll take Ford very long to build my truck.

In 1944, at the height of World War 2, the Ford Willow Run plant was turning out a nice, shiny new B-24 Liberator bomber every 63 minutes, 24 hours a day, 7 days a week and my truck is nowhere near the size of a bomber so maybe, just maybe, I’ll take delivery by the end of February?

A girl can hope, huh?

I ordered my new truck this week. My chariot that will carry me across the country.

I had to order it because, apparently, nothing remotely like this exists in the Ford inventory in a 750 mile radius. I need/want the dually because of the width of my camper/cabin and I just like the look. And I need/want an eight foot bed for the same reasons.

So, anyway, I went to Beach Ford and I had to order it and now I just have to wait for Ford Motor Company to build it for me.

When I was done with the signing of the order and had paid the deposit, I asked the sales guy how long it would be before it’s delivered.

And he said- four to eight weeks.

And I said- but maybe closer to the four weeks?

And he shook his head and said- maybe could happen.

So, we’ll see.

For decades and centuries I’ve wanted to do a cross country trip. I’ve spent my life up and down the east coast and traveled up and down the west coast, but I’ve never seen the middle.

So I finally decided to do it. Route 50 from Ocean City, Maryland to San Francisco, California and then down the Pacific Coast Highway to Sacramento and drive the Mother of Roads- Route 66 to Chicago.

That’s the plan anyway.

Speaking of plans, I’ve drawn up plans for the little camper I’m gonna build on the back of my 1989 F350 pickup and started to purchase some of the things I’ll need for my month long trip.

And today, I made the reservation for my first stop in Ocean City Maryland.

I can feel my motor hummin’.

If I’d known when I was impregnated with the idea to write a book that the gestation period would be eight years, I would’ve said- no, no, oh fucking no!

But that’s exactly what happened.

From impregnation to term, to actually starting the publishing process, took eight years of my limited ability to stay focused and actually finish something resembling a book.

And then came the eight months of labor. Of the line edits, the copy edits, the cover design, all the various little parts that added up to what I wanted to present to anyone willing to read my nonsense.

But I persevered and in the end, after the months of labor pain and weeks of Lamaze breathing, I was told to bear down really, really hard.

And I did.

And out popped my book!

And I couldn’t be prouder of what I’ve squeezed out.

So if you want to see what it’s all about, please don’t be one of the few, be one of the many and buy as many copies of my book as you can afford without stealing your kid’s lunch money.

Buy copies for your friends and family.

Buy copies for the people you work with.

Buy copies for strangers on the street.

Buy copies for gifts, for Trick or Treaters on Halloween (candy is bad for you, this is better), for gifts.

Thank You.

So this is what happened.

Every year my littlest sister has a Christmas Eve Eve party. And it’s wonderfully great fun because we all get to see one another again and still get home to spend Christmas Eve and Christmas Day at home. If you’ve not tried it, try it.

Anyway. This Christmas Eve Eve arrived with frigid winds blowing out of the north, freezing everything and causing widespread power outages. (Why Canada can’t keep it’s weather to itself is beyond me and probably should be addressed) My littlest sister’s new home was one of many affected with darkness and arctic cold so we moved the party to her son and daughter-in-law’s new house.

After we arrived and thawed out, I learned that my nephew had taught himself to bake bread the hard way, with sourdough starter. As we talked he told me about the process and offered to give me some of his starter the next day if I was interested and we were staying in the area. But, at the time, I wasn’t and we weren’t.

However.

The next morning as I drove us home in the dark and LoLa and Miss Carol slept, I found myself thinking about it. The bread had been delicious and I thought how cool it would be to be able to make bread out of just flour and water so I decided I’d like to give it a try. I texted my nephew and he graciously sent me a beautiful book called Tartine Bread.

*cue the darkly obsessive music*

I like to think that all things begin innocently enough and my journey into the sourdough wormhole was no different. I read the book and I started a starter and I nurtured it and thought that after a week it was good enough to bake a loaf.

*klaxon buzzer*

And it was awful. So I tried again.

*klaxon buzzer*

And again.

*klaxon buzzer*

And that’s when the real trouble began. I started reading other recipes, other blogs, anything and everything about sourdough bread and starter. I scoured YouTube videos for hints and help in my now burgeoning obsession.

And I finally prevailed. I baked a loaf.

But.

I also realized that I’d accidentally caused an unintentional effect, that I’d triggered something sleeping dormant in me. I stared in horror as my sourdough obsession seeped into other aspects of my life.

Like- making sure that the bills in my wallet are all facing the same way and in ascending order

Like- not being able to wear a blue shirt because it’s Wednesday

Like- needing my socks to be paired together and arranged in order of purchase date.

I’m not sure where it will end.

Miss Carol smiles wanly and tries to support me, but I can tell that she secretly wishes we’d never gone to this year’s Christmas Eve Eve party.

While driving the big truck in close quarters or backing 53 feet of trailer into tight spots requires no small amount of skill, cruising at highway speed on the interstates is mostly just holding the steering wheel and not falling asleep.

So I have a LOT of time to look around and notice things. Unfortunately, there is very little on most interstates to see.

Fortunately, there are plenty of cars and people.

Sadly, if you pass me on the passenger side of my truck, I can’t see very much. But if you pass me on the driver’s side I can see a great deal.

And what I’ve seen is that there’s a lot going on in American cars on American highways. You might be surprised.

But one of the biggest things I’ve noticed, and this is in no way scientific, nor is it all-inclusive, is the different ways men and women sit and hold the steering wheel of their cars while driving.

For the most part, women tend to hold the bottom half of the steering wheel, sitting primly in the drivers seat looking like they’re at a job interview or in a meeting or something.

Men, on the other hand, tend to grip the upper half of the wheel and slouch in the seat sprawled as if sitting on the couch at home watching sports on TV, or, they hang their left hand on the wheel while leaning on the center console.

Again, this is far from scientific, or even 100%, but it appears to be such a majority in most of the cars passing me as to be almost stereotypical.

So if you read this and think, gosh, that’s me, or if reading it makes you feel stereotyped, you might want to take a walk on the wild side and see how the other half lives. Or, rather, drives.

In other words, men, you sit up tall and erect with your hands clutching the bottom of the steering wheel, and ladies, try sprawling in the seat, leaning on the center console with one hand hooked over the top of the wheel.

And ladies? If you do try the manly way of driving, could you please unbutton the top three or four buttons of your blouse or shirt before you pass me on the driver’s side?

Thank you.

As a trucker, I get this all the time. The one finger salute that my fellow motorists give me to let me know that I’m doing a good job.

And that they love me.

They love that it took me a bit to shift up through 10 gears and get 40 tons rolling.

They love that I’m only going 5mph over the speed limit when they want to go 10 or 15 or 20mph over.

They love that I can’t necessarily get out of their way fast enough.

And they definitely seem to love being stuck behind my truck in traffic.

So as they accelerate past, honking their horns to get my attention, they’ll let me know they appreciate the work I’m doing.

And while I certainly appreciate it, a part of me wishes they’d stop.

It’s kind of embarrassing.

So this is what happened.

LoLa, our full-figured little chiweeny, used to love bounding up and down on and off of furniture and our bed and we thought nothing of our pudgy little football of a dog jumping on and off of whatever she chose.

Until a fateful day in late December.

What we didn’t know, what we came to find out is that dachshunds, especially chubby little dachshunds, are prone to back injuries.

And fat little LoLa was no exception.

So it was just lucky that on that day in December when little LoLa’s final leap ended in her little spine compressing and rupturing one of her little discs that Miss Carol was home because according to Miss Carol, her screams of pain were terrible to hear.

And, additionally lucky, with help from some friends Miss Carol was able to get LoLa to the emergency vet where they operated on her spine and removed(?) the ruptured disc.

So the pain was gone, but so were her hind legs. Miss Carol took LoLa to days and weeks of post surgery rehab, and even though there has been some little bit of progress, LoLa still pees and poops wherever and whenever and slithers around on the floor dragging her little hind legs behind her.

Because it was depressing to see her patheticness and because her dragged little legs were chafing, we decided to buy her some wheels.

Now she motors around bumping into things and getting stuck and when she pees and poops she leaves it in a long trail behind her.

Life is fun.

Miss Carol and me were at our tiny-trailer-home and I had to go to Home Depot to get a few important something or others and after I walked LoLa around in the parking lot for an hour, visiting all the parking lot islands so she’d pee and poop before we went into the store, we finally went in.

In the entryway area Home Depot had staged some racks of little, teeny, tiny plants that Miss Carol told me later are called succulents.

Why, I don’t know.

And they were cute and teeny tiny and I thought that maybe a couple would look nice on my recently installed hanging bookshelves in our tiny-trailer-home.

So I stopped and I looked. And I looked for awhile while LoLa tried to drag away the shopping cart she was hooked to, but nothing really grabbed me. None of the little succulents whispered to me- take me home with you.

I was ready to give up and move on and get the important something or others I’d originally come for when LoLa somehow got her leash tangled in the shopping cart wheels and when I bent to untangle her I saw on one of the bottom trays a forlorn looking, bedraggled little plant laying on it’s side all by itself.

I got LoLa untangled and reached in to see what the little plant was.

When I saw the tag, my breath caught in my throat and my heart started to pound. I looked around me to see if anyone was watching me and then I took the tag out of the soil and stuffed it in my pocket.

I glanced around me again and decided to hell with the important something or others. I needed to get my plant paid for and out of the store before anyone caught on to what I’d found.

So- walking briskly- trying not to run, with LoLa scurrying to keep up, I made my way to the checkout. The self-checkouts were full so I had to go to a cashier. Fortunately for me, the barcode was on the bottom of the pot and not on the tag in my pocket.

The cashier picked up my half-dead, under-watered plant, scanned the bottom, and managed to get it back into the moving cart as LoLa pulled it away.

Cute dog, she said.

Thanks, I said, grabbing the cart.

$3.24. Will that be all?, she said.

Yes, please, I said, not wanting to seem over-eager.

So I paid and gathered up LoLa and my little plant and ran out to my pickup and hurried home.

When I got home, Miss Carol looked at me and asked where the important something or others were and I told her not to worry about those right now- LOOK AT WHAT I FOUND INSTEAD!

Miss Carol looked at my sad little plant and shrugged.

But then I yanked the tag out of my pocket and pushed it into the soil and held it out to her again.

Smiling at my little plant, I told her it was only $3.24 and to get ready ’cause pretty soon it was gonna be rainin’ dollar bills!

And Miss Carol said- are you insane?