Adventures with Geannii

    Most people think 80,000 pounds of steel and rubber can handle anything. They’re wrong. On an Oregon mountain pass in February, physics doesn't care about your cargo—it only cares about who’s in charge. And on this day, it definitely wasn't us. I have a fear of driving — or even riding — on icy roads. I didn’t always feel this way. When I was first married, DH was driving a propane tank. He was bootlegging… me. We crested over a hill — a 20 % grade — and at the bottom was a railroad track. The cross arms were down, lights flashing, warning of a train. The road was solid ice . We were in low gear, but eighty thousand pounds of propane and truck don’t care about low gear. Gravity grabbed us by the ankles and yanked us straight down that hill.

  Clothes were scattered along I-5 for miles. At first, it was just a single shirt lying in the shoulder. Then a pair of jeans. Then a sock — just one, because of course it was. You’ve seen it on television: clothes flying out of an upstairs window when a man is in big trouble. But this wasn’t TV. This was real life, and somebody’s laundry was telling a story. I could picture it perfectly. Huge fight.

                                                Welcome to the second half of the funeral that felt more like a comedy tour. In this act, we move from midget giraffes to 'Peasant hunts,' and my grandsons— Capt'n Chaos and Sir WhatTheHeck —officially earn their titles. Catch up on the morning's madness here before you dive into the dinner disaster.   Act III: The Chaos Continued (The arrival of Mom Ralston in spirit)   After the funeral, we all met at a restaurant just like Mom R. had requested years ago. She’d always said she didn’t want a somber dinner; she wanted us to go out, eat good food, and have a good time. I remember asking her, “You know you aren’t going with us, right?” Anita just shrugged and said, “I dunno… I think she plans on it.” Honestly, she might as well have been sitting at the head of the table, because the whole thing turned into a ci...

                                                       Unrestrained Travis   Act I: The Methodist on the Sidewalk The Warning We were all dressed in our funeral best—looking less like a grieving family and more like a local band that had just lost its lead singer. I looked at Travis and gave him "The Talk." “Travis, just behave for today.” He didn’t even blink. “I’ll try, but I’m not making any promises.” The Crime Scene As we walked up to the Apple Barrel, a guy from the Subway next door was out on the sidewalk with a massive industrial mop. Travis stopped dead. “Is that how you get rid of unwanted customers?” The guy looked up, exhausted. “No. It was here when I came to work. No idea what happened.” Travis walked into the café and announced to the table, “Did you see all that blood? That guy is mopping up huge puddles of it.”

My niece, Jana, bought three guppies for her three kids and set them up in a little fishbowl. One day, they got a floater. A fish passed away. Jana did what every good mother does: held a solemn toilet-side funeral and flushed the dearly departed. Down to two. A few days later, Jana walked by the bowl… and there was only one fish. No floater. No hiding. Just gone. She looked down at three-year-old Miss Chief — the only witness on the scene — and asked, “Sweetie, what happened to the fish? There’s only one.” Miss Chief looked up with pure innocence and said,   “It’s in my belly.” Jana blinked. Surely she misheard. “…What did you say?” Miss Chief repeated, slowly, helpfully: “It’s. In. My. Belly.” Horrified, Jana asked, “How did you catch it?” Miss Chief demonstrated: dipped her hand in the bowl, scooped up an imaginary fish, shoved it straight into her mouth. Gobble gobble gobble. “In my belly.” This was not some frat boy that swallowed a goldfish on a dare. This was a toddler ...

                If you saw my last post about my broken glasses , you know my depth perception was shot. This story is proof that I probably shouldn't have been allowed out in public that day.     Early one January morning, I had just loaded our laundry in the washing machine, then I walked into the driver’s lounge, minding my own business and clutching my coffee like it was an emotional support animal. A man was sitting there, putting his Christmas present together. The “barrel” rested on a rack while he tried to attach the “butt” of a rifle. Now, my brother used to build rifles from kits, so at first I didn’t panic. I just thought, Huh. Someone else with a hobby that requires instructions, patience, and a willingness to lose small screws. But then I noticed… he had a woman’s nylon pulled over his head, the toe tied in a knot at the top.

                                                    No place to set my glasses while I got dressed, I set them in the safest place possible: My seat. Then I forgot, and sat on my wire framed glasses. The plastic line snapped, the lens fell out, and I realized I only needed them to… see. A minor detail.    Being in a truck pulling a 53-foot trailer, we can’t just pull into the local Optometrist and say, "Hey, I need help." So I bought super glue. Because nothing says “responsible adult” like fixing your own eyewear with a substance that can permanently attach you to your seat.    I put a tiny dot of glue on the frame. We hit a bump. That tiny dot turned into a glob the size of a toddler’s tear and ran straight down the lens like it was sliding down an icy mountain. I tried to wipe it off—which only smeared bits of paper towel and a thick la...