It is resolved

My original thought was to do a rather longwinded post about how we typically approach New Year resolutions. Blah blah blah pop philosophy yammer yammer yammer tedious faux wisdom et cetera blah blah blah…

Blah.

Let me make it short instead. Consider dialing back on the self-flagellating resolutions and add more resolutions on the self-indulgent side of the list. Have more fun, more adventures, more love. Worry less about the calories consumed and the shit that's still not together. Live as if your goal is to write a fabulous memoir rather than a strident self-help book. You'll feel less like a failure.

Well, duh!

Turn off your mind, relax and float down stream...

Lay down all thoughts, surrender to the void…

—JOHN LENNON & PAUL McCARTNEY

Doh!

—HOMER SIMPSON

There I was, like most nights, my eyes too tired to read but my brain not too tired to keep me awake.

"Hi! Hi! Hi! Hi! Hi! Hi! Hi! Hi! Let's think of stuff! Okay? Hi! Hi! Hi!..." it says.

"Anything in particular?" I ask.

"Nah. Whatever. Hi!"

"Alright alright. Just shut up, okay?"

"Squirrel!"

A while later, amid the jumble of random thoughts, I had a realization. I keep my clothing in two bins under the bed. Every time I want to get something clean to wear I need to drag the bins out, which means moving several other things. The heater, the coin jar, some water jugs. Then I have to put it all back.

Meanwhile, the top compartment of my steel cabinet contains mostly stuff I seldom need access to. Here comes the epiphany. Why don't I put the clothing in the cabinet and the other stuff in the bins under the bed?

The only question was whether the cabinet could hold two bins worth of clothes. I wasn't going to jump up right then to see. I needed my beauty rest.

So, not all that bright and early this morning, I started moving my stuff around. 

Might it work? 

M-m-m-maybe. 

Absolutely!

Pants on the left, shirts on the right, tissues and a few other non-wearable things in the middle

As a bonus, I was able to get rid of three more containers whose purpose was to keep all that nonessential stuff from rattling-sliding-flying around the cabinet.

Can you tell I'd had the yellow one since the '90s?

I feel so smart now. I think I'll reward my brilliance with a nap.

Straighten up

After I woke up this morning, got my eyes de-crusted and put on my eyeglasses, I noticed my surroundings were kind of messy. A hoodie tossed here. Yesterday's shirt tossed there. Dinner dishes abandoned on the counter, next to old mail and the camera. Computer cables and chargers tangled on the shelf. Things sticking out the top of the wastebasket. The rumpled quilt (tempting as it was to crawl back under and sleep another twelve hours) only added to the effect.

It can get cluttered very quickly when you live in only 60 square feet. Combined with the winter blahs, it can make me feel like a slobbish failure. Fortunately, it cleans up quickly and easily.

Clothing in the laundry bag.

Quilt in the stuff sack.

Cables and chargers put away.

Dishes washed and put away.

Trash taken to the dumpster.

Ah, there we go. Everything looking tidy and clean. Mom would be so proud.

Now I can be lazy.

An experiment in traditional gender roles

Lesa lived several years with the indigenous people of Costa Rica, where she cooked daily on wood fires.

You can tell she knows what she's doing.

My platonic friend, Lesa, had cooked some sweet potatoes in her new Dutch oven and was eager to use it some more.

"How about some stew?" I suggested.

"Oooo, that would be great. And easy," she replied.

"I'll go get the fixings."

I didn't butcher a cow or hunt the vicious chorizo. I bought it. But that still counts as putting the meat on the table, right? Man's work. Feel the testosterone.

Then she cooked it up. Woman's work. Or so some people claim.

Beef, pork chorizo, potatoes. carrots, onions, mushrooms

Then we ate it, which is everyone's job. It was mighty tasty. The chorizo gave it that extra something that made it more than just stew.

The leftovers are sitting in my fridge, since Lesa doesn't have one. She's welcome to them any time.

Really, though, I'm no fan of traditional gender roles. Each person has things they're good at, things they enjoy doing. It's silly to assign responsibilities according to the genitalia one happens to be born with. You could end up with a lot of people expected to do things they have no talent for. I wouldn't have felt emasculated if Lesa had bought the ingredients and I cooked them. It's just sharing, just doing what works. And enjoying the results.

By the frozen yogurt shop

Yuma, Arizona

Snug as a bug

Canadians are generally very nice people—except when they send freezing temperatures to southern Arizona. Maybe homesick snowbirds had it shipped in for the holidays. Whatever the cause, I'm not a big fan.

Fortunately, my down quilt is serving me well. This morning, before sunrise (it's always coldest before the dawn), I thought how comfortable I was. No extreme measures. Just me in t-shirt, jeans and socks, under the quilt, with a corner of it wrapped over my head, leaving a breathing hole. Sure, there was a tiny hint of coolness, but it was a temperature I would be thrilled with in summer. Just right for turning over and sleeping until the sun broke over the mountains. Aaaaaaaaaaah...

Out from obscurity

Back in October I wondered whatever happened to blanket pins. As it turns out, they're still around, just harder to find. There is no Blanket Pins 'R' Us. No Bed, Bath & Blanket Pins. No International House of Things That Were Quite Common in Your Grandmother's Day.

I guess I could use some hand lotion

I was killing time, wandering around the RV supply/rockhound supply/hardware/housewares store that is also home to the auto glass shop when, tah-dah, trays of blanket pins. In three sizes. I got four of the Mama Bear size. Just the thing to pin the fitted sheet to my mattress to keep it from sliding off.

Chet gets his Christmas wish

He's giddy with joy (obviously) that Santasaurus came through for him. He'll be able to ride in the Rose Parade with his fellow Shriners after all.

Chet catches Santasaurus leaving presents

(Santasaurus Rex, presents and tree by Donna Cabral)

Pet sharing: Rochelle

All tuckered out from sniffing my trash

The window bra

According to the wisdom of hot climate dwellers, my windshield cracked because the reflective shade I used trapped heat between it and the glass, causing the glass to overheat. Expansion turned tiny chips into cracks, which became larger cracks. The trick, they say, is to put something over the glass instead of behind it. Okay.

In the meantime, the hot season passed. I wasn't as worried about keeping the Rolling Steel Tent cool. But I occasionally used the reflective shade for privacy.

Then, as I was wandering through an RV supply store, I saw the vinyl wrap-around window covers.

"Oh yeah, those. Do they make them for Chevy vans?"

Yes, they did. And for only $38.

All wrapped for bedtime

My concerns:

1. Would it be a struggle to put in place alone?

No, it was simple. Hook the corner of a side piece over the edge of the door, let the magnet attach to the door, then walk the rest of the cover around the front of the van and attach it to the other door. Put the wipers over the bottom edge.

2. Would it fit decently?

Not like a custom tailored suit, but well enough. It does provide total privacy (except from those with X-ray vision).

3. Will it pack away easily and compactly?

Yes. It even comes with a storage pouch.

4. Will it keep things cooler?

I'll need to wait for summer to find out.

In the meantime, I get to feel superior to other van dwellers, poor sniveling mortals that they are. Neener neener neener.

Let's play another round of What's That Noise!

I woke up from a very pleasant dream at about 4:30AM. There was no need to go back to sleep right away. I read for a while.

Around 5:20 I became aware of a rattling, scratching, tapping sort of noise from somewhere toward the front of the Rolling Steel Tent. I couldn't identify it, partly because my hearing isn't that great—which also makes it hard to determine the direction of sounds. Was it a critter in the wastebasket? A rat in the engine compartment making a home for the winter? Was it gnawing on wires or hoses? Was it something entirely different?

I felt vulnerable half dressed, so I pulled on my pants and shoes, grabbed a flashlight and looked around inside.

Nothing.

But the sound was definitely coming from the dash, or the engine compartment, or on the hood.

Maybe starting the engine would scare away whatever was making the noise.

It didn't.

Okay, time to look outside. I hoped it wasn't a coyote or feral dog.

It wasn't.

In the meantime, the noise stopped. For a few moments.

Then it returned.

Then stopped.

Then returned.

Right now, it's stopped.

Oh, wait, maybe it's one of Santa's elves trying to leave me an early gift.

Not likely. I haven't been a good boy.

What, no Paraguayan?

Yuma, Arizona

Out of one pit of darkness and into another

I visited the Yuma Territorial Prison museum. It was considered a humane prison by end-of-19th-century standards. They had only one windowless cave to lock you up in. But that was probably the most desired place to be in triple-digit summer heat. Otherwise, if you kept out of trouble, you got to share a small cell with five others.

From 1910 to 1914, after the prison had closed, it was used as a high school. Yes, there are all sorts of jokes to be made of that, including their mascot, the Criminals.

Out of the pit of darkness

Hurray for the winter solstice! We've turned the corner. Now the daylight hours will start to get longer. Slowly, but it's the right direction.