The other thing Steinbeck didn’t have to deal with

One of the things I enjoy complaining about is “Steinbeck didn’t have to deal with fucking email or updating his fucking Instagram this week.” I enjoy complaining, something of a hobby, a hobby I’ve turned into something of a career if we’re honest.

I think I’m good at complaining. And I truly believe it’s a skill. Ever been in a shitty situation with someone who can’t laugh? It’s shittier. I think I’m funny about it. And it makes whatever it is less shitty.

So we’ve got that going for us when I have to drive back to fucking Canada to ask Rick to fix my ac. I was thinking about that. How the only way it’s going to get fixed is if I turn my ass around and go back to Canada.

It’s been a long week, or month, who even knows, since I was in Canada. I’m in Spokane now. I usually don’t post in real time. I don’t like people knowing where I am. Which is frustrating when I’m in Minnesota and people are telling me things to do in Chicago. I don’t like it either. But I don’t like everyone knowing where I am. However, in this case, I’m in Spokane. And will be when I post this.

I mention that I am in Spokane because… Hold on. I had to check. It’s a 15 hour drive to Minot. That’s important. And because the van can’t do 80, and less going uphill, that means more like 20. So it’s a good four day drive. And then what, another, four days to Canada? That, the thought of crossing the border is when I realized my passport is in North Dakota.

Yeah. So. I hide things. It’s good to hide things sometimes. Like your passport. I usually keep it in a safe. And I bought a little safe for the van. Then I realized that’s silly. Why add a safe that’s easy to break into anyway. And who’s breaking into a van? I’ll just hide it. Somewhere no one would think to look for valuables. They’ll take my laptop and run.

I thought of the perfect place to hide it all too, my passport and some cash. In a little canvas pouch, inside the dog bed. Dog beds have a little zipper and everything. The bed sits right by my seat if I need to get to the pouch, the pouch containing my passport and emergency cash. Brilliant.

Have I explained what happened to the dog bed?

What happened to the dog bed: Woody rolled around around in some foul animal’s piss, just really dug in there and soaked it up and rubbed it in good. He was extremely pleased with himself. Less pleased the next morning when I hosed him off and shampooed him in an assortment of motel shampoos at a car wash in Minot.

If it helps, know that I sang Sarah McLachlan to him as I set the dial to “spot free rinse.” He was less than thrilled but he minded it less than he minds a bath. I’d make a habit of it but I don’t think car washes use warm water down in Austin, not intentionally.

Anyway. Once he was clean, though I swear I still get a whiff of it on him sometimes—shit based substances they roll in are definitely more disgusting, but easier to clean off. Once he’d dried, I replaced the dog bed. Had to be done. Tossed it. That is, I tossed the dog bed with my passport in it. Laid the new bed down. Drove away, quite pleased with myself.

Where is the old dog bed? Turns out the tractor supply company sells dog beds. And there are more tractor supply company stores than I was previously aware of. They also don’t lock their dumpsters.

I hope whomever finds my passport did a fun crime like unarmed bank robbery and they’ve already made it to a non-extradition treaty country before I close this window and figure out what to do about a lost passport. I’ve never lost one before. (I’m as surprised as you are.)

The van: Jesus Christ. Some sort of vacuum hose thing. It blows cold on defrost but not through the vents. And I don’t know how to fix it. I know it wasn’t Rick who did it because it started happening on the way out of Florida. But, it’s been cold since Florida, or not hot. Now it’s not cold. It’s hot. The world is burning so it was 82 degrees in Spokane. Which feels very hot to someone who now thinks 50 degrees feels warm.

Or maybe that’s menopause. (I should learn how to spell that if I’m going to have it. Or be in it? What’s the terminology?)

Either people don’t talk about this enough or I haven’t been listening. I just had this conversation with a friend the other night. She thinks she’s in perimenopause which is a word I’m pretty sure I heard for the first time, last year. Don’t answer these questions. I know Dr Jen’s on here.

The point is neither of us know anything about it but we’re both pretty sure we’re there. She’s been bleeding for a couple weeks and I haven’t had a period since Paris. I was starting to think I’d get lucky and make it through this trip without having to deal with it.

I don’t know if it’s bad timing or great timing. I got an overpriced hotel because it’s Mother’s Day weekend. That’s why it’s overpriced. Not why I got a hotel. I got a hotel because Woody and I were hot and annoyed and Washington public campgrounds don’t open until fucking Memorial Day. I tried three. Woody started whining that this was bullshit. I agreed and we got a hotel room.

Someone’s going to tell me that I don’t have to explain why I’m in a hotel room. I know. This isn’t some weird challenge to sleep in a van every goddamn night. I’ll get a hotel when I fucking want to. I just did.

The point is, maybe it’s a good time to get the AC fixed and spend a couple days in a hotel room. Not this one. An econo lodge maybe. Fun fact: econo lodges are almost always the better shitty motel. I mean in the motel6/days inn/super8/red roof inn group of hotels, by which I mean among the 2 star hotels that allow dogs—econo lodge is usually the way to go. Some are pretty damn nice. The one in Missoula is great.

And they’re less painful than this place. Don’t get me wrong. I enjoy spending above my means when my dog’s hot. This, the spending above my means happens because once you pre-book one active heroin den in Tennessee and sort of doze-sleep in your clothes a few hours because you’re too tired to keep driving and your dog looks like he’ll cry if you make him get back in the van, you always drive to the hotel and actually fucking look at the place to make sure there’s an not an open air drug market happening in the courtyard before you book. But when you’ve tried the econo lodge and it’s booked, because it’s Mother’s Day weekend, and you realize everything’s going to be booked, you open an app and choose the safe bet, even if it’s a little out of your price range.

The fun part of staying in a fancy hotel when you’re living in a van is you get to make trips to the van for whatever you forgot to throw in your backpack, say, clean underwear. Then while a Rivian parks beside you, you climb out of your van holding clean underpants and a beer. What I’m saying is, they need me here. I class up the joint a little.

Here’s a picture of Woody in happier times, by which I mean this morning in Montana.