Drowning Our Bridges

Once again, rushing around with last minute preparations for the International
segment of the Spring Training Tour. At five a.m. we need to be at the
Miami Dade Airport, returning the big blue beast to Dollar and lugging
our two overweight suitcases to the terminal to catch the 7 am flight to

Why carry so much weight for a two week whirwind tour? What happened
to traveling light? Alas, being married to a conscientious Ecuadorian with
a needy mother and 9 sisters and brothers, plus myriad cousins, neices
and nephews, carries heavy responsibilities. The super-sized of the two
overweight bags is stuffed with gifts gleaned from fancy American stores
like Target and K-Mart, special requests for sneakers in a certain color
and a certian size, replacement parts for American appliances (there are
still a few in service, especially outside of the United States), shoes
that pinch, shoes that rub, shoes that slide and a complete wardrobe
that no longer fits (Norma Yvonne has raised the ante a couple of dress
sizes, all the more to love).

We need to stop at Curcuit City for a travel charger for our Motorola
Phone.  When Norma and the Dowbrigade bought our matching phones
last year they came with twin chargers.  We lost one on or last
trip to Peru.  The other one got sucked into the vacuum cleaner last
December.  We bought a single replacement, but Norma refuses to give
it up.  Even though the phone won’t work in Ecuador or Peru, we rely
on it as out repository of numbers.

First, though we need to do a last load of laundry to hit the continent
with completely clean clothes. Luckily Harold has a washer-dryer in the
first floor garage below his condo. Maybe we can run out to the Circuit
City for the charger while the clothes are in the dryer.  If we
can even find the damn phone.  No good calling it, because
since we got down to one bar we started turning it off except when talking.

When was the last time we saw it? Last night, when we closed down Starbucks
at 1 am. Where did we put it? In the pocket of our black shirt.  Where
is our black shirt? In the washer, of course! Irreparably saturated.  Drenched
to the core. Sunk in sudsy hot water. Fritzed. Fried. Frelled. Oh, well.

There’s a lesson in there somewhere.  Until we figure it out, don’t
expect any calls from the Dowbrigade. But stay tuned…..

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