Today has been a day of tummy aches.

The first wave of nausea I came by honestly. Really, that’s what you get for sitting in the passenger seat at the grocery store, a giant slab of “moist chocolate cake” in your lap, and your fingers for forks. I attacked that colossal rectangle of sugar with much gusto, zero grace. The cake then repaid the favor, attacking me in turn.
Aching tummy.
Tummy. Ache.
(Happy birthday, Judy!)

The second episode today wasn’t chocolate induced, but the kind of ache that festers from a deep, little nugget of frustration, foreboding, and stress. The final diagnosis on the van: a cracked head. Whatever the EFF that means. (Eric tried to patiently explain the situation but lost me at “pistons.”) According to Malan, the new BFF, it’s an additional $2,800 to fix, plus the $400 charge already levied upon us for 3 days of head scratching.
Ouch.
I know I’m more affected than I outwardly show or recognize, because when my dear is visibly distressed, I cleave my yin to his yang to try and retain some measure of balance + harmony.

Lastly in today’s misadventures of the stomach: the universe is listening. And the universe hates us.
Cooking dinner, camping in the back parking lot of the auto shop, I SAY the motherfucking cursed words: I HOPE OUR LPG RUNS OUT WHILE WE ARE HERE. HA, HA. A mere 5 minutes later, trying to mix my raw steak into a sizzling mess of hot veggies, the burner dimmed, shuddered, and disappeared altogether. Apparently my poor wit in noticing that the auto shop advertised gas refills was mistaken as an urgent, celestial plea for a ruined dinner, as the shop had closed 10 minutes previous. That wasted $8 of sustenance had me closer to tears than a figure 400x that amount as quoted by Malan. (Hey, boo.)

I miss home.

-K

^ Exploring the Victorian district of Oamaru, a sweet little town to the south.

^ Old photos to fill in while we waste away our days at the town bibliotheca.