Well, we’ve officially entered the era of external after-market vehicular prosthesis.
Thus far, we have made a habit of making mincemeat of what most auto manufacturers would herald as a vehicle’s reasonable use-by date. We pump money into our armada when most self-respecting folks would have driven her to the scrapyard, or more likely to the dealer in hopes of a good trade. Hell, the last five (maybe eight) times we took the Toyota in for her regular visits to Nate the Great down the road, even he, even our backwoods patch-it-til-it-pukes mechanic, has gently uttered, with growing vehemence, “I think it’s time to start lookin.” When Nate pronounces a vehicle dead, you know there’s not much left to resuscitate. But still we persist.
What has not happened thus far in our vehicular journey, at least to my memory, is any mechanical amendment that has actually broken out of the inner sanctum of the chassis. There have been no life-support protuberances to date . No trachiostomy tubes, no ports, no catheters, no drains, no halos. Nary a cast nor ace bandage have needed to be applied to the outside of our babies, though I’m certain that there were times that they would have been advisable. The collective medical implants of our fleet–which are extensive–have always been under the hood, so to speak.
Enter: The Master Disconnect.
It doesn’t look like much, really, but when walking by the front bumper of that ’93 vintage Yukon, her new knobby-do stands out like a sore thumb. This may be due to the fact that it is the shiniest thing that truck has seen in, umm… ever, but nevertheless, her whole appearance has changed. She accessorizes now.
The bling in question has been put in place by Nate the Great to allow us to start the Yukon in the winter without a jump. For somewhere in her vast electrical system there is a draw, and while my efforts at starting her once per week no matter what (up to and including a recurring Google Calendar reminder) were holding through the warmer months, even these life-support measures were not enough for the dipping temperatures of January. After the third jump of the weekend, we took’r in for a little procedure.
Now we just need to remember to cut the power each and every time we hop out of the cab. Likelihood of that little exercise in memory lasting strong into next week: 17%.
In other news, we got another inch of snow.
Yet another winter storm that somehow skirted us.
This irks me to no end.
The Milwaukee Kid is thoroughly buried, though, so I guess that is something. Sigh.
And in yet other news, when I went out to snap those pics of the Yukon’s new look, I also took a stroll out to the mailbox, to send Phyllis’s 93rd birthday card in the mail. Because 93 is quite the accomplishment, and some of her bigger fans thought it would be fun to have 93 birthday cards for her.
So I wandered out there, a full 2 hours after the mailman had come through, because I’m dumb, and cursed myself as I dropped her letter in the box. Every now and again around here you have the magical one-day turnaround from the ol’ USPS. Let’s hope this is one of those days.
On my way back to the fire, I decided to take the time to poke fun at my husband.
As he has worked his way through the woods of the Ottinger Estates in the production of firewood, you see, he has taken the inexplicable time to construct these brush piles at irregular intervals… Here’s one, over there on the right:
Towards the end of the 2021 firewood season, as the underbrush was clearing to reveal the whole of our property, I noticed his little projects and asked him why he would expend such energy to stack up useless wood?
“They’re for the bunnies.”
I kid you not, my man was erecting bunny houses in the woods.
As you can imagine, I wasn’t so excellent at concealing my humor. Also, my doubts.
Here are a few more of his complexes, off in the distance:
They’re kinda’ hard to see. Here, lemme zoomy zoom in a little:
So anyway, I’m walking back in the driveway from sending off Phyllis’s now late birthday wishes, and I’m embarking upon an embarrassment mission directed at my husband, as one does, and I stop off to take that first picture of that first bunny house. I squatted down, so you could see what it looks like from the bunny’s perspective, how spacious and modern.
Here it is again:
Now you’re not gonna’ believe this, but…
Watch closely, as we move in:
Do you see him?
I squatted down there, essentially to make fun of my loving husband for his adorable soft spot and arguable delusions of leporine condominium usage, and I am shocked to have to tell you this, but I saw me some fur.
Now, snapping photos of the bunny was difficult, what with that tendency to bolt, so I had to do some zooming and cropping and brightening, but can you see him in there? His furry little self all warm in his bunny abode? See his little eye, taking me in, about to signal his little bunny amygdala to shoot more adrenaline into his hind legs than my hind legs could handle without compound fracture?
So I guess I’m here, once again, to make fun of my husband, and then eat a little crow. The theme is clearer when you take the grand view.
If you need me, I won’t be worrying a bit about the homeless bunny population,