I saw a bumper sticker today that was the shape of Montana and said, "Get Lost (in Montana)." And all I could think was that the New Jersey version of that would be, "Get Lost (no, really, we don't want you here)."

Anyway, apparently the MT Office of Tourism gives them away, so I signed up to get one.

There is a North Skunk Creek and a South Skunk Creek, but no Dead Skunk Creek.

There was a Dead Horse Creek in Wyoming (as well as a Crazy Woman Creek, which I side-eyed until I decided it was preferable to Dead Woman Creek), and just generally, Wyoming had a lot of creeks of the [Adjective] [Noun] Creek [Road] formula.

Iowa was the land of wind turbines. They had a whole gentle giant majesty going on especially when compared to the smoke stacks of South Dakota ejaculating poison into the air (seriously though, the phallic imagery was pretty epic).

Little Sioux had a billboard that seemed bigger than the town itself saying "Prepare to meet thy God". Um. Sure. I'll meet my god, who doesn't exist. Then Sioux City, and finally Sioux Falls where Bobby and Snowmiser conspired to trap me for the night with blizzarding and road closures. Though I guess if I was going to be delayed somewhere, it's nice that it was a place I got to make Supernatural references about.

This is the first time my car has ever gotten below 30 miles per gallon (27: yikes!), but I figure it was due to a combination of the car being weighted down with my stuff and the weather/windiness as well as spending a lot of time idling to warm up the car in the morning when it was below zero out. And the other numbers were in the 30s and I got as high as 37 on one tank, so not too terrible overall.

Driving in the wind is incredibly tense-making. Even with the extra weight, I had to make minute course corrections and got all hunched up over the steering wheel about it. I know some of the extra windiness was from the storm, but seriously, set up some wind turbines and you'd be set for power.

In other reference makings, I stopped in Bozeman, Montana for gas on the final day of driving. I seem to have a thing for states with future Star Trek history in them. Going from the future birthplace of Captain Kirk (although not in the alternate timeline of the reboot cuz there he was born in space), to the future site of the launch of the first human warp drive/first contact with the Vulcans.

I wound up spending a lot of time following trucks and sort of using their speeds as a reference to what would be best given the icy conditions and wind.

I did not get hit by a Semi when "Bad Moon Rising" came on the radio.

There were periods of no radio reception as well as only scary religious radio reception, and lots of country (which led to me discovering Carrie Underwood's "Blown Away").

Bootsie was of course NOT PLEASED throughout the ordeal, but he wasn't overly howly about it, and he drank and ate a little the second night so I didn't have to force water down his throat with an eye dropper like I did the first night (I was slightly less worried about dehydration since it wasn't super-hot summertime, but winter Bootsies need liquids too).

Being a "young woman traveling alone" (as both Dad and Aunt Flossie felt the need to warn me about) did not really seem to affect my travels in any way that I could tell.

I'm sure I'm forgetting lots of stuff because well, three days of driving insanity almost two weeks ago, but that gives you a taste, I guess.

Of course when I finally got to my new apartment, they were still putting the flooring in and that made everything extra stressful and obnoxious, and Bootsie hid in the crate while they were there all the next day, which was a little ironic considering how it had gotten progressively more difficult to get him back in there.

But they finally finished, and the new floor is nice, and I got my stuff all moved in. I still have some boxes around that I should probably do something about, but I'm getting there, and my first week of work went well.

No, no, fuck you.

HATE!,
nicole

P.S. I didn't think of it until I was driving on an ice skating rink and wondering if I could sue you from beyond the grave, but next time I am totally wearing my Harvard shirt in protest. So there.

If I am the one braking to a stop to let a pedestrian cross the street, and you are the one honking your horn and going around me (over a double yellow line, no less), that makes you the asshole in this situation.

It is better to have a propensity for hitting curbs than a propensity for hitting other cars. It is better to have a propensity for hitting curbs than a propensity for hitting other cars. Or pedestrians. Or wildlife.
At least this way, the only thing that gets hurt is my car. But seriously, what is up with me and the damn curbs? I was doing so well! I mean, I scraped a few curbs-- maybe even bumped a few others, but nothing requiring the shelling out of money for car repair for at least two years. Maybe even three.
At least I know what to do and am actually pretty good at changing a tire between curbs and picking up nails (except maybe not because Public Safety Officer said I should loosen the bolts before the tire was all the way off the ground, and I had forgotten and/or never learned that part *eyeballs dad*).
Ah well, the very kind Officer Leach stopped to help (To Do: make a "thank you" card and figure out where to send it) and was actually able to start the bolts loosening without standing on the tire iron and bouncing a bit (which is what I usually do). Then I stopped at Pep Boys on the way home and got a new tire. This was definitely the cheapest of the three curb hits as it did not require body work. Then again, the second curb hit, I didn't realize it required body work until later when it started making funny noises and it turned out the axle was bent.
So I'll just be over here telling myself that it is better to have a propensity for hitting curbs than a propensity for hitting other cars.

It's raining, it's pouring,
Nicole ain't driving!
(Yes, I know it doesn't rhyme.)

I always get pissed at the car when I have to take it in for fixings, but then when I get it back, I'm all, "I missed you, car!"
So, MaryBruceland trip has been delayed, but come hell or high water I will be there for Brucey goodness tomorrow night.

On to the funny Car Guy story...
Okay, so the place PUs go to has two Guys, one for American cars and one for foreign cars. And mom always goes on and on about how the guy who does foreign cars (Steve) doesn't say much, but apparently the guy who does American cars (Chris) is chatty and friendly.
Well, Steve talks to me. Today, he asked me if I enjoyed my summer and talked about how he took a week off and stayed at home gardening in the morning and taking his canoe out on the river in the afternoon. Previous times I've been there he has teased me about my propensity for hitting curbs and my bumper stickers. He's not chatty on the phone (which is fine by me), but in person, he's always very friendly, and well, he talks to me.
I was telling dad about it, and apparently he's very terse in dad's presence as well (though in most instances I'd think mom would be there too-- dad mentioned seeing Steve at Concerts at the Crossing and him being just as terse as he ever was). Anyway, Dad said Steve talked to me more today than he's ever talked to him and mom for the the like, 20 years they've been going there.
So yeah, my theory is pretty much that he's fine with talking to people, he just doesn't like talking to mom. Which I sympathize with. And also: HEE!

I find it somewhat hysterical that even the guy who backed into the side of my car feels the need to tell me he likes my bumper stickers. Just last night, the guy who parked next to me at the ShopRite voiced his endorsement, and then this morning I go out to find hugoid dents in the driver's side doors of my car (surprisingly and thankfully, he left a note with not one but two phone numbers, which seemed promising). And then when I called to get info, he said he liked my bumper stickers, amongst the it-was-an-accident type statements.

And hey, for once it is not my fault and no curbs were harmed.

I'm starting to think my car is cursed, though.

So, one of my tires is significantly low, and the other three could use a little air themselves, and what is a girl to do?
Bust out her handy air compressor, of course.
Of course, it's a crappy, cheap air compressor that takes for freakin' ever, but that's neither here nor there.
In the midst of my inflation shenanigans, a guy (on his way to his car) asks me if everything is all right. Which is nice of him, I guess, supposing that everything were not all right. But I can't help wondering if he would have asked had I been male and doing the exact same thing.

So I just tell him I'm fine and move on to the next tire, and he drives away, and I'm thinking, I can change a tire, bitch. Sure, I have to stand on the handle of the bolt-thingee for leverage purposes, and sure, I just called it a bolt-thingee cuz I don't know it's real name, but yeah, I think I can handle shoving some nozzle thingummer onto this release valve doodad and flipping a switch.

"Let's try to avoid curbs for a while."

Dude. Seriously. If I hit another fucking curb, I'm gonna start believing in curses.

Dear Curbs of This World,
Whatever I have done that offends you so, I am terribly, terribly sorry.
Please Don't Hurt Me (or my car),
nicole.