We are stuck in Rockford. The leveling system is not working properly and the only advice the roadside service would give me is “disconnect the wiring and take it to a RV Center that services Holiday Ramblers.” First it is Sunday and no service station is opened. Second – There is no way I am going to dismantle anything. I am beginning to show some improvements with repairs but there is still this little voice inside my head saying, “Beat it with a hammer, if it breaks into a billion pieces don’t worry it needed fixing anyway.” Third – this is brand new. There should be no problems and I am going to drive it, dinging away to the RV Center and let them deal with it.
I hate alarms. It seems that the majority of my life has been ruled by alarms. I have become Pablo’s dog. Alarms are intrusive; they shatter your ability to think. Yes they do shatter the ability because every time I hear one I want to pick up a hammer. Your thinking has changed from trying to fix the problem that caused the alarm to go off to wanting to destroy something to get it to shut off. I know they are useful so that makes them a necessary evil. That still doesn’t help my desire to rip out wires to make the damn thing shut off. My mother, who is an excellent cook and my kids know what good taste like because of her, would start cooking and the smoke alarm would go off. It was located in the hallway above the closet door and one of the kids would run to the door and use at as a fan to shut off the alarm. Eventually the battery gave out and it was never replaced. It became another useless appliance like the salad shooter that is collecting dust in the cabinet that no one can reach without a step ladder.
I am also hopelessly bored. I finished my book (Last Days of Dogtown) this morning, I took a few pictures of geese that are resting by the river, walked my dog and let her sniff everything, ate lunch, and now a storm is brewing. I can hear the thunder in the distant creeping up slowly, the rain just started and my picture window, also known as a windshield has droplets of rain on it. With the luck that I have been having the next posting will be coming from Oz. I can see it now. The RV dropping out of the sky, landing on a witch, the Munchkins coming out singing….. Their voices sounding similar to the alarm system in the RV. Then I pick up a hammer. I am so bored.
I hate alarms. It seems that the majority of my life has been ruled by alarms. I have become Pablo’s dog. Alarms are intrusive; they shatter your ability to think. Yes they do shatter the ability because every time I hear one I want to pick up a hammer. Your thinking has changed from trying to fix the problem that caused the alarm to go off to wanting to destroy something to get it to shut off. I know they are useful so that makes them a necessary evil. That still doesn’t help my desire to rip out wires to make the damn thing shut off. My mother, who is an excellent cook and my kids know what good taste like because of her, would start cooking and the smoke alarm would go off. It was located in the hallway above the closet door and one of the kids would run to the door and use at as a fan to shut off the alarm. Eventually the battery gave out and it was never replaced. It became another useless appliance like the salad shooter that is collecting dust in the cabinet that no one can reach without a step ladder.
I am also hopelessly bored. I finished my book (Last Days of Dogtown) this morning, I took a few pictures of geese that are resting by the river, walked my dog and let her sniff everything, ate lunch, and now a storm is brewing. I can hear the thunder in the distant creeping up slowly, the rain just started and my picture window, also known as a windshield has droplets of rain on it. With the luck that I have been having the next posting will be coming from Oz. I can see it now. The RV dropping out of the sky, landing on a witch, the Munchkins coming out singing….. Their voices sounding similar to the alarm system in the RV. Then I pick up a hammer. I am so bored.
Location: Rockford Illinois
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