Fastidiousness is key to living comfortably for weeks and weeks in 24
feet. Our motor home (named Otto) is about 24 feet long, so the living
space is a bit shorter. I putter constantly to keep out the litter,
household refuse and clutter.
Socks go in the basket.
Dirty spoons, cleaned and back in the drawer. Soap in the dish, with a
lid. No scum in the sink.
Our other home, the one with many more feet to live in, graciously
consumes the leavings of our life without complaint. But not our motor
home. One thing out of place devolves my harmony into chaos.
So, we (really I) keep things clean. We (really, we) empty the trash
Trash in, trash out.
Herein lies a problem.
We stop at a truck stop in Swanton, Ohio, and, surprise, the diesel
pump declines our credit card. For security purposes. OK. I know the
drill. We pay cash, climb back in Otto, grab the phone and prepare to
call the number on the back of the card. Only I can't find my card. I
have to use Allen's.
We make the call, square things away (another story for another day)
and get back on our way.
But, where is my card?
Think, think, think. When did I use it last? What was I doing? Where
was I going? What was I wearing?
Then it all comes back. A punch in the gut.
Two days ago, we stop at the Warners rest stop just outside Syracuse
for coffee and snacks. I carry a $20 bill and my card inside with me.
I spend $2 and change, use my card, then try to juggle the food and
cups and cash and card as I head back to Otto. I can't do it. I have
no purse. No pockets.
So, I spill my card, the cash and change into the bag with the hot
I hop in Otto, divide the goods, snack, sup, then, yup, scrunch up the
trash. We toss it at the next rest stop.
Remember the bag with the pretzel and my card and the money? Well, I
didn't. Until two days later. Far too late because of my
fastidiousness to rescue the card or the cash. The pretzel was yummy.
Trash in, trash out. Sigh.