Last week instead of creating a blog post, I was puking after eating one allergy-inducing grain of rice while Bernadette chewed through her lead and walked away from Jeremiah to join the geese gang.
Later that day, while the sun was setting on a relatively nice evening and I was stoned on Benadryl, we went for a stroll in very long grass: grass so long that it hid from view a large hole that I promptly shoved my foot into. I then proceeded to kneel on the grass as though praying to the sunset…which was a very cute look, especially with the mascara and eyeliner on my face becoming a nice grunge effect. So, my ankle is purple and the size of my thigh (which is large, let’s be honest) and I’m continuing to pretend it’s fine. It’s fine. I’m sure of it.
Cold
Right now it’s a real feel of eight degrees outside. Farenheit. It’s not warm. In fact, we detached our fresh water hose yesterday since we didn’t want it freezing, but our entire fresh water tank frozen as well.
These are all realities of living in an RV. These things would have happened, in one way or another, if we lived in a regular house—well maybe not the frozen water tank…
Between the time I sprained my ankle and woke up to frozen water though, we’ve been doing our regular things. Obsessing over weird convenience stores, meandering through farmers markets and art districts, planning our next boondocking trip (hopefully Louisiana soon!) and celebrating nine years of being together.
Mexico 
Goons 
Our 1st picture together – his 26th birthday 
Our first camping trip 
First day of full-timing 
Halloween – a million years ago.
Our First Date
Jeremiah and I first met the way any couple does these days: online. I worked at a bakery, and routinely got up before any rooster, so when Jeremiah proposed getting a cup of coffee in the evening for our first date, I thought him mad. Turns out, most 25 year olds don’t go to bed at eight.
Since Jeremiah decided the time, I decided the place. A few blocks from my house, I arrived at a café I had visited earlier that week right before Jeremiah showed up. After awkwardly waving at him while he crossed the road under the street lamplight, I turned to point to the café.
“Hi,” I hollered, “I think it’s closed…” The doors were locked, and the huge windows had been boarded up. “Let’s try the back door!” I suddenly announced.
Yes, I really said that. Then, I proceeded to walk down a dark alley, up a flight of stairs, and pull on the back door handle. In my mind I had just assumed that it had turned into a speakeasy bar and we just needed to find the right entrance.
He mentions now that he assumed I was a serial killer trying to lure him to his death. (I made an equally good first impression on his parents when I met them at a wedding and proceeded to eat a cube of butter that was definitely not white chocolate.)
After recognizing that the place I had invited him to was absolutely shuttered, we walked to the nearest Starbucks and sat chatting while I tore piece of a coffee sleeve into brown confetti. Nine years later, we still find ourselves across from each other at tables with my hot coffee and his iced, while I doodle on napkins and receipts and fold them into origami cranes.
Nine years have passed. I could list all our joint accomplishments, or talk about the rough things we’ve gone through, but I’ll just leave it at this: that café re-opened as a delicious Mexican restaurant where I eventually did take Jeremiah. To his delight, they made a delicious seafood stew. I didn’t taste any; I didn’t want to take any Benadryl.
