And Finally...

This is the middle of nowhere.  Actually, I guess, this is really Downtown Nowhere.  It is where we ended up last Thursday afternoon, out of gas.

Nine miles outside of Mesquite, over the Arizona line, and just before we headed into the Virgin River Gorge, Genius Golfer's Baby Camaro ran out of gas.

This problem for me was compounded with the need I had to pee.  Having to seemingly always need to pee, I was making good on my promise to only pee when we stopped for gas--which, sadly, wasn't soon enough.

Cell phone coverage? You may ask. None.  Downtown Nowhere has no coverage for our cells.

So the choices were, nine miles with a full bladder and flip flops on my feet, or flag someone down and hope they will be kind and merciful.

Genius Golfer opted for the later.  He flagged a guy down--possibly the Mayor of Nowhere--not exactly merciful, but helpful in the end.  And for the king's ransom of $20 cash, he brought us 2 gallons of gas.  Enough to get back to Mesquite, where we should have stopped in the first place.

The sad thing is I had felt like I should ask GG to stop at the Las Vegas Speedway off ramp to pee there, and get gas, as we use that spot for a pit stop often when we take the Durango.  But I tried to tough it out and held my tongue and my bladder.

I mentioned having to pee again as we came close to Mesquite and  GG assured me we'd stop in St. George.  "Could you hold it until then?" he asked.  At the risk of breaking my word to only pee at regular stops, I agreed.  I guess I should have been more adamant.

After the world's most condescending and expensive roadside assistance by the Questionably-Honorable Mayor of Nowhere, the car started and GG asked if we should try to make it to St George or go back to Mesquite.  "Oh." I told him, "We are headed back to Mesquite.  There will be no debate on that point."

Luckily, I think, he was pulling my leg.  But, really, you should never try to pull the leg of a woman with a full bladder and head full of "I told you so's" that she is momentarily holding in.

I'm still not sure what the problem was with the math, as far as the mileage he thought we should make with his Camaro.  But we were listening to Harry Potter on tape, and perhaps (wishfully, for me) the story had transported him and he just didn't think about it as he was enthralled with the magical story of the boy who lived.  Nah.  Probably not.

But, this was the end of our anniversary adventures.  Until another 20 years, or so, I guess.