At The End Of My Wits, Errr, Oregon Trail

With three kids, we gave up our obsession with "everyone smiling and standing nicely for the picture" and traded it in with "at least one body part of each person is present in the picture."

Look! *I'm* smiling!


So we went to see the end of the Oregon Trail. Here's a map for those who are not able to decipher "Oregon" and "trail:"



It was all so very fascinating, in a geeky sort of way. One presentation had all kinds of goods the folks would have packed for the cross-country trek.


The room was full of people, and get this! When the presenter asked if there were any questions, my son (my son! my quiet, reserved son!) raised his hand and asked a question. I thought Pa was going to pass out from the shock of it all. And the question didn't have anything to do with bodily functions, to which we were greatly relieved.

Speaking of embarrassing one another, I worked hard to humiliate my children:


My parents did it to me. It's only right that I pass that legacy on.

Fortunately, Susie's cuteness made up for the dorkiness of her Ma:


You've already seen Zig and Campers as the little pioneers, but here's a couple more:



And a little gender confusion to add to the mix:


After we'd forced the kids to sit through 18 gazillion presentations, we let them run in the wild:



And then we stuffed our faces, thankful that we didn't have to heat our food over buffalo chips:


Although from the looks on our faces, you'd never know that we weren't eating the buffalo chips ourselves.

And after that rousing finale, we took the weary pioneers and forged a trail towards home.

Look At The Plates, Folks, Look At The Plates

I finally dragged my body and the bodies of Three Little People to our favorite place, the Department of Motor Vehicles. I went in the middle of the week, early in the month, and early in the day.

Okay, so 10:00 am is not exactly "catching the worm" type of early, but LISTEN!!! I GOT THREE KIDS!!!

(And it appears I also have some pent up Road Rage.)

So we had to wait for only TWENTY-TWO people in line in front of us. I'd hate to see that place on a "busy" day. But fortunately, I remembered to load my bag with snacks, because we all know that Stuffing Our Faces At All Times is a great way to feed our most deeply felt needs.

But I was talking about license plates!! The plates, Ma, get back to the plates!!!

So here they are, the new plates:

And though it is super-exciting to have new plates, and feel like a "real" resident, I am going to miss sporting the out-of-state plates, as they were a great excuse for our lame city driving. "Look at the plates, folks!! Look at the plates!!!!" (Because we all know that shouting things like this, inside our vehicles, is a Really Helpful Thing to do.)

And speaking of actually looking at the plates, there really ARE numbers and letters on them. I just erased them for my own personal safety, so that all the people I honk off on the street do not hunt me and my Bad Self down.

Campers was a good helper getting the old plates off and the new plates on. When we got to the rear plates, the bolts had rusted to a point where I was having an impossibly hard time getting them off with the wrench. There was a whole lot of mumbling and grumbling going on, not to mention the scrapes and scars I was putting on my hands.

When I was Totally Fed Up and had almost decided to sport an old plate in the back and a new plate in the front, Campers came to my side and said, "Ma? Why don't you just use a screwdriver??"

And I barked, "DOES IT LOOK LIKE THIS BOLT TAKES A SCREWDRIVER??!?!?!?!? AM I NOT PERFECTLY CAPABLE OF TAKING THIS PLATE OFF MYSELF??"

And then a few moments later, I took a close look at the bolt, and whadddya know, I should have been using a screwdriver instead of a wrench.

And that's what it's like to have boys around.

And then I gave him a big SMOOCH on his cheek (which my analytical boy loves) and got the plate off in no time.

Look at the plate, Ma, look at the plate.

So My Gas Tank Was On Empty

Well now that we have our vehicle back, we are driving it, which means that it eventually needs to be filled with gas. I even waited until the FILL THE TANK YOU IDIOT light was on, which is something I would never have done before. I'm a keep-the-tank-at-least-half-filled-at-all-times kind of gal, lest some emergency arise where I have to drive halfway across the state to, um, rescue a beaver or something like that.

But there's the no-pumpy-yer-own-gas law, and that kept me away from the stations.

And about this law, this is what Wikipedia has to say about that:

All stations in the state, however, are mini service; attendants are required to pump gas because customers are barred by statutes in both states from pumping their own gas. Both states prohibited self service in the 1940s due to fears that foolish customers would handle gasoline improperly. The state's Department of Environmental Quality has also ordered a ban on self-service gasoline due to inexperienced pumpers being a significant source of groundwater and air pollution. The state fire marshal has also ordered a ban on self-service gasoline. Today, these states enforce the law because of the rapid increase of drive-offs, where people fill up their car and drive away without paying for gas. In 1982, voters rejected a ballot measure sponsored by the service station owners, which would have legalized self-service gas.

So I went back to the same 76 station, where Mr. Cuba was working again. But on this day, everyone and their mother decided that we must have gas now. So there was a long line, and only Mr. Cuba to fill us all up. Twelve pumps + One attendant = My 475/380 blood pressure reading.

There is just something very hard about sitting there and waiting. And waiting. And not getting out of the van, but just waiting. For someone else to come and fill the tank.

Y'all may be getting a lot of phone calls from me at the pump. Cuz I gotta do somethin'! And if I can't run out and pump my own gas, I might as well run my own mouth.

I had the whole system down to a science! I was the fastest pumper in the Midwest!

It's the craziest thing I've ever seen. But friends, you just wait! Winter is coming!! And maybe by then I will have at least learned to stick a book in the van. Maybe a book about patience.