Woody & My IBF

Dropped four 40 pound lead plates (on the skinny edge) on my feet.  If I hadn't been wearing my heavy work clogs, I think I would have mashed my feet. It was so horrendous that I didn't scream, cry or curse.  I couldn't look.  I left my shoes on all day.  When I finally had to disrobe to hit the bath, I peeked. Oh, my. Slices into the tops of my feet, swelling, and I expect some black toenails under my polish.  Shoulda known that didn't bode well for the day.

The woody is in the hospital for elective surgery and my imaginary boyfriend is nowhere to be found.  I had called down to the autobarn to make sure the battery was charged and there was air in the tires, as I was beginning my voyage in a matter of days.  Bad news, I was told.  The doors were off and being fitted for new wood.  What the? I didn't order this, but it looks like mischievous Woody has been angling for this facelift behind my back. I'll have to get my American Express card back.

I begged the wagon doctors to do it swiftly and prayed for a speedy recovery.  Six coats of varnish need to be put on after the fitting.  That's a minimum of six days.  I'm now pushing for next Friday, though I doubt that will happen.  On the positive side, I have more time to prepare my stuff.  On the negative side, having one's enthusiasm dashed too many times rather takes the fun out of it (see almost-real imaginary boyfriend).

I was offered one of many fine rides, but I just cannot do this in anything else but Woody. Not in our favorite Leroy.  Not in the neon green hot rod pickup with the moonshining graphics.  Not even the candy-apple red Roadmaster.  Will not do.
So I sit here thumbing through the road food guides and Weird Alabama, pining for the languid hot nights in the South.