The leaping tea bags were corralled inside a clear zipper bag; the heavy duty type they wrap pillow cases in when they are selling them separately. While their offending box (which as I previously wrote, slapped my nose twice in one day) was thrown to the garbage. Matter of fact, I went to look for a jacket, then suddenly purged my own closet of clothing that was holey or stained or wore out or any combination of that. Well, that certainly left more room in the closet. I looked to see if any of the clothing could be donated, but frankly it was all in such super sad shape, I can't imagine anyone paying to wear it again.It was all clothing I had bought used that simply gave out.
After a long day dealing with the medical mess, then a trip through the dog park, to make us laugh, Harley and I made it back to our campground at Wickham Park in Melbourne, Florida. Our camp site is a tricky spot with a few obstacles. I backed in while neighbor campers watched to see if I was going to take out the utility post or the tree or the picnic table or the dump station or the signs.
I swear I heard two guys placing bets. We came within inches of each, giving them something to point and gasp about. Since the park is full, I was assigned a least favorite spot, which is very narrow, on a curve and at the dump station. It requires some creative turns to avoid hitting the sign posts and plumbing at the dump station while dodging the utility post, two trees and the 8 ton 6 foot picnic table.
Seeing a woman alone arrive at near dark-thirty to complete these maneuvers, is quite the entertainment for some of the bored pensioners who live here all winter.
Luckily our spot came with a wonderfully cheerful neighbor, who chats us up several times daily while her cat gives Harley smug dismissive looks. We discuss and gross out over the number of folks that handle their sewer hoses bare handed while utilizing the dump station. Yuck! Obviously they have never studied the life cycles of parasites and the diseases they can cause. Double YUCK!
I am very fortunate my wheel estate came with an outside faucet that has hot and cold water. In the little faucet compartment, I am able to keep soap stashed there as well. I use heavy duty gloves to handle the sewer, then wash them under the hot soapy water, next I wash the faucet handles, before I even take the gloves off, so all is nice and clean. Hopefully if all goes well, I don't get any sewer on any part of my skin, therefore avoiding my participation in the life-cycle of parasites.
For you non RV folks, a dump station is where you empty out your holding tanks. Black water is the toilet sewer. Gray water is the sink and shower water, so RV's come with two holding tanks, one for each type of sewer. This park does not have individual sewer hookups at the camp sites.
Once we were backed in, I hopped out with Harley attached to the leash which is attached to a jumbo carabiner which also has a bag on it with doggy poop baggies and my keys to the motorhome and engine.
I remembered to lock the driver's door, because we planned to enter through the main entry door, after we hooked up the umbilical cords.
While outside the motorhome, I plugged in life support, namely the heavy 30amp electrical cord and the ancient fresh water hose that is cantankerous. It folds up on itself, preventing the water from moving freely. I unkinked and unfolded the decrepit water hose until I could hear the whoosh of fresh water. Then it taunted me by leaking. I found some Teflon tape to unscrew it, wrap it in tape, then rescrew it, hoping that would resolve the leak. It didn't. I think this particular hose is possessed by the devil. It's probably 17 years old. It came with the motorhome. My other newer water hoses were left out on the prairie, still attached out there, as I wasn't planning to be in Melbourne near this long.
Harley and I took a quick stroll around the campground while he watered the landscaping here and there. The fading sunset quickly plunged into darkness as the temperatures seemingly dropped another 10 degrees. I wish I had taken time to put my jacket on, but I was just getting out to hookup the motorhome, not realizing I was going for a walk as well. We had to stop while Harley greeted some of the other dogs out on their walks, plus several campers were in a chatty mood.
Some pet parents are not very friendly, yanking the leash of their dog upon approach with any other dog. This instantly frightens their dog into being overaggressive, thinking that the yank of the leash is the owner's way of panic. Their dog now shifts into protection mode, becoming very unfriendly rather quickly.
Incredibly, if the pet parent would pay attention, they would notice that one second earlier, their dog was happily wagging his tail, in anticipation of meeting another doggy. Meanwhile the pet parent claims their dog isn't friendly. But typically their dog wants to be friendly, but the canine brain thinks the pet parent is freaking out with that rapid tug of the leash thus, needing aggressive protection.
So while some pet parents and their canine critters were relaxed and friendly, others were uptight and not so hospitable.
Back at the motorhome, it was practically pitch black. I held up the carabiner to access the door key. That's when I noticed there were NO KEYS attached at all. Oh what a sinking feeling. I felt about 2 inches tall at that moment. A check of all three doors was futile but I dutifully checked anyhow. They were all locked. The windows, which are pretty high up, when you are standing outside, were all closed and firmly locked.
Here we were, standing in the dark shivering. All pooped out. We were locked out of our nice little warm wheel estate. Harley jumped up on the door step, then back down again, then up again, wagging his tail, staring at me, as if to jar my brain to open the door. Even more maddening, I could see one set of keys dangling from the ignition. I have no idea what we did with the other set of keys. Some times I wish Harley could answer these mysteries. But his memory comes and goes too.Some days day he plays fetch, bringing the ball back to within inches of me. Other days, he can't remember to get it within six feet.
As I pondered our ridiculous predicament, I thought about homeless folks and how deflated they must feel out in the cold, night after night. I said a prayer for them, thinking I should try to do more than just hand over jingly change when I meet someone down on their luck.
However, I heard about a local panhandler who has a hilarious sign on his shirt that reads "The truth is I wanna buy beer and cigs."
Another one stands on a busy street corner with a sign "Bet you can't hit me with a quarter!" I don't know why I was thinking of all this instead of how to get inside my wheel estate.
But eventually a tiny lightbulb dimly came on in my head. Ah ha!
A long time ago, I became worried that one day when I hopped out to pump gas or check the parking levels before turning off the engine, Harley might push my lock button down. He is often enthusiastic, when I stop, bouncing around like his feet are spring loaded, placing his front paws all over the driver or passenger window as he looks outside to see where we have stopped. Thus far he has never locked me out. Until now. But technically it wasn't his fault, just that usually the keys are on his leash.
Awhile back I had hidden a spare key to the entry door in a place that no one is likely to ever find at all. It is very cleverly disguised. I had not checked in ages upon ages to see if it still existed in its safe hidy hole.
It was time to say our prayers, paste on a great big smile (because smiling makes things better) even in the dark. I searched for the spare key without benefit of a flashlight, as they were all locked up inside too. I guess I should put one in an outside locker. Duh... the things I think up when it's a bit too late. Amazingly, in the dark, I located the spare key. Eureka!
Giddy and Goofy... averted disaster once again.
Yippie doodle doo!