Yes, I'd like to purchase that with my gloom, please.

I love humor. I live for it. If I meet someone who doesn’t understand my humor, or God forbid, has no sense of their own humor, we probably can’t be friends. If I have to deal with anyone or anything for a lengthy period of time, the injection of humor is an absolute necessity for the survival of all. Following the last update I posted, I started to feel like I had fallen into some kind of life-sucking black hole, which stemmed, I think, from the fact that I didn’t find myself, or anything, or anyone funny anymore (look at all those commas – I’ve also got a thing for commas). When I would sit down to spin more east coast tales for all of you at home, the page would generally end up full of comments like “I think I might die from this” or “What in God’s name have I done?” which I ended up erasing, followed by much rumination on the fact that a good portion of my ability to recognize and create humor was flowing from some hitherto unrecognized place inside myself that was happy. Who knew?

I was expecting to be homesick in Delaware. I was expecting to feel lonely, dazed, and out of place for a while. I had lived in the same place, with the same people, doing the same thing for my entire life. Suddenly being 2400 miles away from that was going to have some repercussions, I get it. I was ready for that battle and I armed myself with a few tools straight from behavioral science. What is depression? It’s a lack of reinforcement. I just needed to seek out sources of reinforcement and bask in their warmth. How do you find sources of reinforcement? You observe where you allocate the majority of your free time. Easy, peasy. Except it wasn’t easy, especially considering that I was allocating the majority of my free time to assuming the fetal position in bed and pretending that I was at home; not my first choice for a fun Friday evening, but it was what it was. These simple scientific principles that had never failed me at home were left powerless in a world where my insides had become an emotionless, barren landscape (another thing I have a thing for: melodrama). I like to imagine that Scarlett O’Hara, whom I love, would describe it as such: bitterness was my only companion and gloom my only currency (good stuff, am I right?). The only things I was inspired to write in those desperate months were passive aggressive Facebook posts about all my first-world problems that I would later regret posting. The following exchange between me and a Haitian child I saw on a sad commercial (I considered adopting him for a small monthly fee) was generally what prevented me from such disgusting use of an online social platform:

Me: “Oh! Woe is me! This PhD program requires so much of my time and effort. I’m tired and overwhelmed! Ooooohh, my family and friends are SO far away! I feel lonely and isolated!”

Haitian child: “I ate a dirt cookie for breakfast and I slept on a leaf with my pet cricket, who is all I have in the world.”

Me: sob “I miss my family! Everyone is going to forget about me!”

Haitian child: “My cricket was gone when I woke up this morning.Oh well, more leaf for me, I guess.”

Me: “Everyone else gets to see their family for Christmas. I will spend my Christmas alone in my warm apartment with only canned food to eat because I am not comfortable with the idea of making a whole turkey!”

Haitian child: “I’m not sure what Christmas is. Maybe I would spend that day making real cookies with my mom, if I had a mom, or an oven, but I don’t, which is why me and my ribcage on this television screen are making you seriously consider adoption.”

The dirt cookie thing is true, by the way. I read a news article on it, which I regrettably shared with Taylor, who started responding to my voicing of all complaints with, “Dirt cookies, Tiffany”. Left with no retort, I was forced for the moment to adopt a more thankful attitude. That was annoying.

Sometimes, Taylor would bring me down a peg or two beyond the dirt cookie comments, usually just when things started to get particularly unmanageable…meaning when I started to get unmanageable. For instance, I was chin deep in a bowl of Lipton soup one day in an attempt to soothe a mixture of sadness and cat allergies (I’ve become quite the cat-sitter around the department now since I’m the only person left in Newark, Delaware during the holidays. At least that sad state of affairs is benefiting someone), and was extremely upset to find that TBS was airing some ridiculous crime show instead of another episode of The Big Bang Theory (one of the few sources of reinforcement I had in the beginning of this mess, FYI). I uttered a loud cry of distress around my noodles and looked at Taylor with my crisis-face. He responded by pointing out to me, while laughing uproariously, that I was laying on the couch with a bowl of soup propped up on my chest, only moving my chin around it enough to see what button I was pushing on the remote. “Your problems are SO awful!” he said, enacting a ridiculous impression of my predicament that had him rolling around the couch like a barking seal. Ass. (I hope he reads this! Also, I really do love him.)

Regardless of the fact that my first-world problems were very first-world, the point is that feeling dead inside for any reason doesn’t make for good writing. Fortunately, things have been on the upswing lately. This improvement has been coming in baby steps, and began with some travelling that ignited the little spark of fury in me that requires the assistance of humor to keep me on this side of the insane asylum walls. I had hoped that a little time at the airport, surrounded by filthy, inconsiderate beasts, would provide just such a cure for my lackluster, and thought at first that these hopes would be dashed. I arrived at the airport, where the woman checking bags treated me quite rudely. This had no effect on me. I just stood there while she bitched about the strap on my bag and snarked at me for not using the self-service terminal correctly. I stood there and took it, I think I may have even apologized before walking away, wondering who this person was that I had become. Not even a little fury surfaced for the guy in security that kept screaming at us about removing our belts. No small impulse to hang him with it, I just took off my belt and tossed it morosely into the bin. This lack of emotion continued as I boarded the plane, which usually sends me into an emotional typhoon because I feel like I’m walking the Green Mile or something. I am generally teeming with emotions during a plane ride, scribbling out last notes to my loved ones when a little turbulence hits, and making the sign of the cross whenever it lands, but not this time. I just bounced around with the turbulence, wondering when the peanuts would arrive, absently wishing they were handing out Valium instead.

However, shit started turning around on the trip home. It started with an extreme case of bed head. Not my own, thankfully, but the bed head of a woman who appeared convinced that the only way she was going to get a seat on the plane was to claw her way onto it over the top of the rest of us. These people are the worst. We are ALL getting on the plane, so put your panties back on and get in the back of the line. These people are generally gunning for a window seat, which they don’t need anyway because they are usually the ones that feel the need to get up and pee several times over the course of a 5-hour flight, stepping on toes, mashing knees, and spilling the thimble of diet coke just poured for us middle and aisle seaters by the flight attendant. My favorites are the ones who come stand next to you in the long line of people waiting to board, and while refusing to make eye contact with you, get closer and closer as the line moves up, eventually edging right in front of you like they were there the whole time. So tricky.

I realized that I was feeling a little nervous before takeoff, a good sign. The flight attendant was, I believe, in league with the devil. She glared out at us with her chin lowered and her black hair curtaining her narrow-eyed face while she warned us in dire tones that we were not allowed to form a line to use the front lavatory. I assume this rule was in place to avoid an audience while she surfed the Internet in her little attendant seat, but what do I know about airplane safety. Later on, she stuck to her guns when an elderly woman walked up to the front and stood by the occupied bathroom door. Devil-eyes ordered her back to her seat, and when the elderly woman said she really had to go and was afraid someone would get to the bathroom next before she could, devil-eyes responded that she had no control over who used the bathroom and if the old lady couldn’t hold it, she could go wait at the back of the plane. I felt that the presence of such evil had dire implications for the fate of our flight, and feared the turbulence all the more because of it.

If I was sensing some color returning to my inner landscape in the beginning stages of this flight, I was certainly seeing colors by the middle of it. Hey, window-seat person, as much as I love having you in my lap every time you need to make your way to the lavatory, how about you reconsider that second beer. And hey, guy on my other side, I’m not writing over here for your entertainment. Find something else to stare at so I can start writing about how annoyed you were when the plane was full and you had to let someone sit in the seat you were saving for your briefcase. Also, get the hell off my armrest. And now back to you, window seat person: When you sneezed a moment ago and I said, “bless you”, the fact that you completely ignored me makes me want to snatch back my blessing and wish the plague upon you. I don’t dole out bless-yous very often, and I’m extremely annoyed that I gave into the ever-present social expectation to do so for the sake of an ungrateful brute like yourself.

After surviving those five, long hours and then nearly being trampled by the people who seemed to feel that throwing elbows and mowing down the elderly was the only acceptable way to exit the plane, I was once again faced with bed head lady, whose hair situation had not been improved by five hours of window seat headrest. I was standing patiently in the baggage claim area when she came charging up like Moses parting the Red Sea, apparently convinced that if she missed her bag on the first go-round, it wasn’t coming back.

For once, I am grateful for my tendency to be annoyed by pretty much everything because for a while that day, I felt a little bit normal. Unfortunately, peace is a fickle mistress, and there were several times after that where I re-assumed the fetal position, or cried in the middle of my statistics class, or spent several hours in a row sitting on the couch while fixing the wall with a blank stare and wondering if I would ever feel joy again. If you find this annoyingly dramatic, join the club. Adding to my state of misery, I was completely disgusted with myself for making such a scene when everyone else who has ever moved away from home seems to have handled it like an adult.

In short, the past four-ish months have felt like a really long roller coaster ride. Sometimes I was on the part of the rollercoaster where the cart was climbing and I was able to look around at what was going on here and appreciate it, or really enjoy the moment when other graduate students were trapped in my car while I showcased my sweet ability to sing every word to “Whoomp, There it Is”. Then sometimes I was on the part where the cart reached the top and teetered around for a minute, with Kings of Leon singing in the background “I just wanted to knooooww if I could goooo hoooommee”, before it plunged straight downward as I desperately tried to claw my way up the back of it. But the fact that I am finally able to share all of this with you with a little bit of a smile on my face means that I might be getting close to the end of the ride and maybe, just maybe, I can get the hell out of this infernal cart of a million emotions. So, I’m pretty happy about that.

P.S. There were some bright spots during those months of despair, like some of the excellent people I met in Philadelphia. Two of these individuals earned their title of excellence for saying things like “hot dwag” instead of hot dog, and “I pahked the cah in Hahvad Yahd” instead of “I parked the car in Harvard Yard”. I love them, particularly after they’ve had a couple beers and will say anything I ask them to. 

But since this is already four pages long, I’ll share the rest of the bright spots another time should you care to read them. ;) 

Despite homesickness and a lack of peanut butter, we live on.

I imagine you’ve all been dying for reassurance that I haven’t died in a drive-by shooting for cutting off an east coast driver while swerving into the nearest Dunkin Doughnuts. Fear not, my friends, I am alive and well. I am, however, embarrassed to report that this is not due to any inspirational overcoming of my fears. It is due to the fact that I am still refusing to drive. Fortunately, Taylor has obliged this refusal so far, but has recently begun making evasive comments about me getting a car in the near future. I generally ignore these comments by pretending that I’m extremely focused on whatever I happen to be doing at the moment, but he is right, I can’t go on like this forever. So far, I’ve come up with some excellent excuses for why whatever car he shows me just won’t work (“I can’t drive a stick shift in this traffic” or “Green?? Do you even know me?!). I suggested to him that I get a bike and just ride that to school, but he told me that was a bad idea because I’m “skittish around semi trucks”, whatever that means, I was laughing too hard to ask. I also tried telling him that since I haven’t driven a car in over a month, it’s plausible that I’ve forgotten how to drive altogether, and so why risk it? He didn’t appear to see the reason in this argument.

Driving anywhere around here (meaning, of course, when Taylor drives me anywhere) is a confusing affair. It’s not like you can just take first street from your house, go straight through the stop sign on Ammon road, the light on Hitt road, and then take a right at the light on Woodruff (the exact route to Walgreens from my house, FYI). If you want to go somewhere here, expect an on-ramp or at least a highway to get up in your business.  The time it took me to drive from one end of Idaho Falls to the other is the minimum amount of time you need to budget to get from one light to the next around here. It’s a travesty. Also, it’s possible that I’m exaggerating about that, but if you factor in the humidity and a Freon issue with the truck (translation: we are currently sans air conditioning while driving), my time estimates are legit. How can I be expected to deal with all that on my own? Taylor, who knows his way around everything already, has little sympathy to offer me in this regard, as evidenced by his responding to my complaints by showing me another car he found on Craigslist. I was done complaining and very busy reading, so I couldn’t tell you if I liked the car or not.  

I’ve got a pronoun problem over here which I believe, once vanquished, will help me accept the fact that I do actually live in Delaware now. Everything new I see is something “they” have over here, whereas “we” have______ (insert some opposite) at home. I find myself starting out a lot of sentences with “you” guys have/are/do/don’t/etc. followed by the opposing “we” have/are/do/don’t/etc. This needs to stop immediately, but I can’t shake the feeling that I’ll be going back home any day now, like this is just some extended vacation where we stay in an apartment rather than a hotel…and have jobs…and a power bill. Some part of me is currently refusing to accept that “I” am one of “them” now, and “they” are now “we”. It is a somewhat painful state of existence, feeling like nothing belongs to you and you belong to nothing…except of course when you see signs at restaurants claiming that their potatoes come exclusively from Idaho. For whatever reason, you have an urge (which you always resist) to let them know that you, like their potatoes, were also made in Idaho. Pride is an ugly emotion, people, especially when it comes to vegetables.

On the homesick side of things: it isn’t exactly what I expected. I am generally okay throughout the days and aware that my family and friends still exist and that I will, in fact, see them again. So, it’s not a daily, constant kind of thing. It’s an unexpected, triggered by small things, kind of thing. And when it hits me, I am often paralyzed by the sheer force of it. For example, one day I was strolling around a flea market looking for an office chair, when I saw a dark haired little boy with bright brown eyes looking straight at me. All I could see was my nephew, who is quite possibly my favorite, under three-foot person on earth, and all I could do was stand there with my mouth half open and try not to cry. I don’t have to tell you that standing in a public venue with your eyes fixated on a lone child does not get you any points with nearby adults.

Other random, heart-wrenching moments are inspired by more subtle events, like the inability to find the brand of peanut butter you need in the grocery store. When such a thing happens, say, on a Sunday morning when you’re feeling so heart heavy that it’s difficult to walk, you end up stumbling down the aisles with tears running down your face, damning Delaware straight to hell between sobs. (As you picture such a scenario, feel some pity for Taylor, who endured several dirty looks from other shoppers who were likely imagining that he was the source of my distress.)

On the weather: The humidity is finally dying down. I’ve been told that the humidity here is nothing compared to the south, and I’ll take their word for it since I do not intend on finding out for myself. In any case, it would appear that we have other weather related calamities to contend with. On one of our first mornings here, we were rudely awakened (at the ungodly hour of 6 am) by our phones blaring those emergency tones you usually hear from the television when a severe weather alert is being issued (or when they are just testing the tone for ten minutes during your favorite TV show). I glanced at my phone, one eye open, and read the following message: “Tornado warning. Imminent danger. Seek shelter immediately.” My other eye popped open as my heart started unevenly pumping what was sure to be my last few rounds of blood. I was on the top floor of a three story apartment building, in a city I had been living in for exactly four days, and the only soul I knew there was sitting next to me in bed – where were we going to seek shelter outside of our bathtub?? While I was thinking all this through, Taylor was getting dressed in a mad flurry and claiming that he was not, under any circumstances, going to die in his underwear. I decided that our best course of action was to do whatever the neighbors were doing. I figured that, in an unfamiliar situation outside of your own territory, if you should see a bunch of animals running in one direction, your best bet is to trust their judgment and run like hell in the same direction. So, to this end, I attempted to look out the window. I say attempted, because I was met with a white wall of fog and whipping rain, past which I could literally see nothing. This, compounded with Taylor yelling at me to get away from the window, had me more terrified than I’ve ever been in my life. I was going to die, and probably due to a swift kick in the head from the hoof of a cow the tornado would pick up on its way to my apartment. Excellent.The next fifteen minutes were passed with much hand wringing, uncertainty, and worry about whether I should call my family, who were likely still slumbering away in their two-hours-behind-me time zone. Then, suddenly, everything just stopped. The wind, the rain, the blaring phones, all finished. The now clear window showed me a parking lot full of cars and no people, suggesting that everyone else had silenced their phones and went back to bed. In conversations with a few Delawareans later in the day, this near-death experience was referred to as a “quite a little storm”, and whenever I’ve brought it up since then, I see eye rolls and dismissive hand waves. I remain indignant about this.

On apartment living: In Idaho, I wasn’t a fan of the neighbors living in the houses next to me, and I’m certainly not a fan of the ones living on the other side of the walls here. I subjected myself to moving couches and other items up several flights of stairs with the express purpose of not having pounding footsteps from above drown out the latest episode of Breaking Bad. It appears these efforts will be wasted since the neighbors to my left are either practicing for their next Olympic sprint or are seriously into Zumba. They also have a bangin’ sound system hooked up to their TV that they fully enjoy each evening around 9 pm and, lucky for us, they appear to exclusively watch movies that have serious bass undertones in every scene.

These sprint racers/Zumba aficionados spend a lot of time on their balcony, which generally doesn’t bother me since we can’t actually see each other through the wide planks that separate our balconies. However, since their dinnertime has started to coincide with my get home and read a book outside time, I’m starting to feel like we have beef. For the last few weeks, they have cooked their dinner on the grill outside, and they aren’t cooking it quietly. Every time the male sprinter is out there flipping the goods, he starts belting out some R&B, broken only by the sing-songy “oh yeeeaa-yeeeaa” he expresses when the meat starts to sizzle. For the last little while, this ritual has seen the occasional interruption due to the start of football season. So now, in the middle of the only non-school-related reading I partake of each day, I hear the R&B humming, the “oh yeeeaa-yeeaa”, and then the sound of the sliding door being cracked open, followed by “BLOCK HIS ASS!!”

On the school: Life at the University began with orientations. A lot of them. When you find yourself in a city 2400 miles from home, at a University that feels like it sprawls enough space to compete with the entire city you came from, with a campus that could really benefit from its own navigation app, some information on how to handle yourself is certainly beneficial. Fortunately, there is no lack of information for the newbies at University of Delaware. In fact, there are days worth of it. For an already overwhelmed individual such as myself, this ends up being more exhausting than informative. While I imagine I will look back fondly upon these first days, and maybe even miss them, for now I’m happy that the University is done scheduling entire days to orient me.

Each day started with a nametag. You stand in line for days, wondering why on earth you pre-registered in order to avoid the line, just to discover that you’re actually supposed to be standing in line according to your first name, not your last. So, you move lines and stand there for another few days, all to receive the little white sticker that they’ve so dutifully printed your name upon (the only apparent point of pre-registration).

You then make your way into the conference room where the first question you are sure to be asked is what your name is. After checking that your much anticipated, pre-printed nametag is fully visible on your shirt, you respond and then stupidly ask them the same thing. You shake hands and then they ask you what program you’re in (also on your name tag). Repeat this process around ten times as you attempt to find your assigned table. Once you’ve accomplished this, there is more small talk to be made with the people sitting there as you wait for the bagels and yogurt. The bagels and yogurt are always accompanied by plenty of coffee, which you guzzle, knowing full well that they aren’t going to give you a bathroom break once the onslaught of presentations begin.  

Thus begins your eight-hour day, the majority of which is spent in a chair that can only be made of concrete. At first, it’s exciting to be surrounded by 600 other new graduate students, many of whom understand just what you’ve been through in order to be a part of what’s going on in that room. It’s exciting to hear the opening speeches that praise you for making the cut and get you excited about what this means for your future. It’s exciting when suddenly, in the middle of the opening speech, the speakers start blaring music and, after a few confusing seconds where everyone is wondering if the A/V guy fell asleep on the buttons, you realize there are various people throughout the audience standing up to dance and that you are actually witnessing your first flash mob that isn’t a YouTube recording. Seriously, that happened, I have video.

However, once you hit hour four or five of this eight hour barrage of PowerPoint information, your butt is fast asleep and if you hear the words “you are the future” or “this is your home” followed by a dramatic pause one more time, you’re going to chuck your Diet Pepsi can at the current speaker (which you regret drinking because you’re still waiting for a bathroom break). Other verbalizations that make you want to cause a scene, just so you can standup for a minute, include:

“If I have one piece of advice for you as a new graduate student…” (First of all, you’ve given us about fifty of those pieces in your half hour speech. Secondly, the person before you gave the exact same pieces. Away with you and your pieces!)

“If I could just take one more moment of your time…”  (A) Is this an option you’re giving me or are you just being polite? We both know the answer to that question. B) Just be honest and say “If I could just take up your entire day as well as all blood circulation to your lower extremities…oh, and also, “one” more moment actually means I’ve got about 30 more minutes up here, so settle in, baby.”)

“And now I’d like to introduce…” (Wait. What? There’s someone left in Delaware that we haven’t had the honor of meeting yet? By all means, bring them on; I will not be convinced that UD is my home until every Delawarean declares it so!)

Seriously, I appreciate advice and I appreciate every bit of information (except, maybe, for the public safety officer’s dire warnings about jaywalking on campus), but can’t someone have mercy on our poor little souls and just print some pamphlets so we can go home after the first four hours? No one’s listening anymore after that anyway, we all have to pee too much to pay serious attention.

And just when you think it’s all over because the speaker says something like “And finally…” you realize this a cruel game they play because all of their sentences, after the first one, begin with these words. I thought perhaps we, as new graduate students, should make them a PowerPoint presentation on when it is appropriate to use the words “and finally” so as not to have the tired masses of now overly-oriented people poised on the edge of their seats so they can make it to the food table before it’s all gone, only to sink back in exhausted disbelief because the end appears to be no where in sight.

Outside of me adjusting to school and Taylor adjusting to his new job, we’ve had a few adventures, mostly related to hunting down items off Craigslist. One such adventure for barstools led us to a place called Northeast, Maryland. This caused some confusion in the beginning when I was trying to get directions from the owner of said barstools. I was annoyed that the location was listed as Northeast Maryland… I’m from Southeast Idaho, but that isn’t getting anybody anywhere. After an e-mail or two with this person, I was sufficiently educated on the fact that someone long ago decided to directionally name a city, and off we went. It was mostly uneventful. There was a live bait vending machine at a gas station there, which I couldn’t believe I’d never seen in Idaho, and the person selling the barstools kept saying “Idaho?? Whoo! All the way from Idaho!” and shaking his head as he shut the door behind us.

We also decided that checking out the beach was a good idea. It wasn’t. This may be due to the fact that we chose to check it out on Labor Day weekend, but either way, I’m never going back there again. This particular beach is 1.5 hours from our apartment and we were there for all of 20 minutes. Some quick math would have you thinking that this outing soaked up about 3.5 hours of our life. It took six. Where did the other 2.5 hours go? They went to sitting in the truck in a line of traffic that New York City would be proud of, watching the same traffic light turn green fifteen times while we sat in the same spot until it turned back to red, fifteen times. Repeat this process for the next several lights, add in pouring rain (which, of course, only started as we finally walked up to the beach) and humidity so thick you could choke, and that was our beach trip in a nutshell. The actual twenty minutes of beach consisted of us walking up to the sand, taking a picture, and then being trampled by the masses of people being shooed off the beach by the lifeguards. Why they were being shooed, I’m not sure, but apparently no one was allowed to be on the beach just then. I approached a large sign full of rules to see if that might clue me in, but it only served in adding to my confusion. It would appear that, when you are even allowed to be on the actual beach, anything beyond sitting there and quietly making sand castles is strictly prohibited. Among other things, you may not feed the seagulls, you may not run or play any game that involves a moving object if the lifeguards are on duty (I’m assuming if they’re gone, all is fair game), if it is between the months of May and September, you may not ride your bicycle, use your skates or rollerblades (does anyone still have rollerblades?), or ride your scooter (well, damn). These months also exclude your dog’s presence at the beach. You may not step on or go near any dunes or beach grass, and while you are welcome to drink to your heart’s content at Whiskey Jack’s on the boardwalk, toss the alcohol before treading sand. (There went my Garth Brooks inspired dreams of setting sail with Captain Morgan…thanks a ton, Rehoboth Beach.)

While I didn’t get close enough to the Atlantic Ocean to see any of its finer qualities, I have been able to do so with other bodies of water around here, and it’s not pretty. In Idaho, all sources of water are blue and clean enough that I would bathe in them…I probably have bathed in one while camping…in fact, I’ve likely brushed my teeth with that water and felt pretty good about it. I would do that here like I’d do that in a foreign country.

Speaking of camping, it has come to my attention that we do things in Idaho that make people think we’re weird. Camping is not a concept people understand here. They have many questions, such as “Why would you sleep outside in the dirt if you have a perfectly good house?” or “What about bears?” (All perfectly reasonable questions that I didn’t actually have an answer for, by the way.) Another “Idahoans are weird” moment came up when another graduate student in my lab was telling me about the backwoods people in the state she comes from (Virginia). She informed me that these crazy backwoods people come out of their hollows to watch things like tractor pulls and demolition derbies. I, in turn, informed her that this was a normal practice in Idaho, even for the non-backwoods kind of people. It wasn’t a proud moment for me.  

The bugs are still on a relentless campaign to infiltrate the apartment and, despite devoting the majority of my night luring them into lighted corners where I, reaper of death, await, I still wake up with at least one new bite everyday. Taylor claims that I’m exaggerating, but I think the problem lies in the fact that I smell much better than he does.

There are things to adjust to that I never considered before they happened. Like where to get groceries. At home I knew that serious grocery shopping was not to be done at Smith’s or Albertsons because they mark up the product like a mob boss. Here, however, I have no such street knowledge, so there’s been some trial and error.  While at a Shop-Rite last week, I discovered some reasonable deals if I had a loyalty card. I didn’t have one but I was sure the cashier could just scan a store card or sign me up for my own at checkout. This particular cashier had other feelings on the matter, and informed me that unless someone in line wanted to hand over their card or phone number, I was out of luck until I applied for a card at the customer service desk. Since my groceries were already rung up and bagged, that wasn’t really an option; and since I wasn’t paying $6.99 for a brick of cheese, I mustered up some courage and asked the line of people behind me who had a card I could use. The first two people in line were feeling possessive about their little keychain cards (it’s not a VIP club, people, come on) and I ended up just standing there, staring down the line, eyebrows raised to indicate that as long as I was standing there waiting, so were they. Finally, the third person in line rambled off her phone number with a “Theya (there) ya go sweetie”. I thanked her as I left, to which she responded “Shuwa, shuwa (sure,sure). It was a satisfying experience.

So, beyond the Fiesta Ole withdrawals, the fact that we aren’t really into the tap water around here, and that missing all of you hasn't gotten any easier, we are alive and well. 

Notes on a cross-country trip, day 5 and apartmental beginnings

We woke up Friday morning and headed out for our last three of hours of driving, sans burrito in the glove box. We wanted to stop for lunch in a big city and decided Baltimore would do the trick. Beatrice seemed cranky (again with the U-turns, this time on the freeway) so we opted to figure it out on our own; how hard could it be? That question was answered soon enough when we found ourselves in what I can find no other description for than “The Projects”.  Apparently, there are two downtown Baltimore signs, and we took the wrong one. We took the one to a place where the only stores that haven’t been vandalized and abandoned are the ones selling liquor, which are on every weed-ridden corner. A place where, I guess, they don’t sell shirts, just bandanas. A place where the dead-stares you get from the people sitting on chairs on the sidewalk make you surreptitiously lock the door with your elbow.

A city worker was weed eating a little corner of ground around a telephone pole where there was more garbage lying on the grass than there was grass, and rather than bothering to remove the garbage first, he just went ahead with the job, scattering bits of Styrofoam and paper all over the place and maybe getting the grass a little. I watched this entire episode while stuck in traffic, looking out of the other window at the van full of smoking children if I got bored.

It was an enormous relief to get out of there and we ditched the whole lunch in Baltimore plan; one adrenaline rush per day is enough for anyone. On our way out, we came up to a stoplight that had just turned yellow, so we stopped. The car behind us was having none of that. They couldn’t care less that the light was now red – they swerved into the lane of oncoming traffic in order to pass us and then sped through the intersection, laying on the horn the entire time. I looked at Taylor in wide-eyed wonder and said, “Our first pissed-off east cost driver!” and we shared an enthusiastic high-five. There were less high-fives as we encountered more of these delightful individuals, but we’ll always remember our first time with a rush of warm feelings.

Somewhere along the way, we passed a sign that said “Wheeling Jesuits”. I spent a few interesting minutes wondering about the difference between a Jesuit and a wheeling Jesuit, until I realized we were actually passing through a town called Wheeling. Oohh, I get it now. Back to less important ponderings, I guess.

When we finally pulled up to the apartment, it was raining like mad and Taylor insisted on walking across the parking lot from the leasing office to see the apartment before we signed the lease, as if that was the smart thing to do or something. So we check it out, decide the green stuff growing all over the deck is normal for a city so close to the coast, and head back to the office looking like a couple of drowned rats (that rain was serious). Signing the lease felt like more paperwork than we went through when buying our house, and it cost a lot more money, too. On the bright side, though, the office has a DVD collection that you can borrow from for free whenever you feel like it, and I got a cool magnetic pass to the workout room. I’m sure I’ll use that as much as I used a gym in Idaho…so, never.

Once I started unloading the truck, I was thrilled that we had sold everything, because there are FOUR little flights of stairs going up to our apartment. I was coming down the last flight of stairs, panting because we have FOUR flights of them, and I saw someone standing next to Taylor. I was ready to whip out my pepper spray but upon further investigation, I found out it was our neighbor, James. I was soaking wet from the rain, red-faced from hauling things up FOUR flights of stairs, and still panting. I’m sure I looked impressive, especially when Taylor introduced me as “his female”, a habit he picked up somewhere that I keep trying to break him of. (We are not wild animals,Taylor.) James seemed nice enough, but this IS the east coast, so I’ll be keeping my eye on him. For all I know, he was scoping out the goods in the back of our truck. Good things our goods only consist of ten or so boxes filled with towels, toilet paper, and every yearbook I’ve ever gotten. (That box was terrible to haul up FOUR flights of stairs.) I promised in my first note that I would let you guys know how all the eating was working out for my figure, and it turns out that it won’t be a problem, thanks to all these stairs. Did I mention how many? I’ll get back to you with an exact count.

While unpacking, I plunged my hand into a box labeled “bathroom” and it came back out slathered in some oily substance. Apparently, one of us figured a full bottle of spray sunscreen would manage a cross-country trip just fine in the broiling heat. This was not the case. Fortunately, because whomever it was at least had the foresight to put it in a plastic bag (with several other items), the mess was at least somewhat contained. Because I was in no mood to deal with it, I now have a plastic bag in the master bathtub, filled with shampoo bottles bobbing in a river of liquid sunscreen. So, I’ve got that going for me when I get bored.

A quick trip to Wal-Mart provided us with the essentials: a thingy to blow up the air mattress, microwave burritos, and a toaster oven. The toaster oven was a must, according to Taylor. He was so enamored with it that he posted it on Instagram. If a toaster oven is all it takes to make him happy after driving 2,404 miles away from home, then a toaster oven it is.

The next day we got a little more in depth as far as stocking the apartment went. We got up bright and early and scoured the town for garage sales. Beatrice was a necessary evil in this endeavor. I look forward to a time when her services are no longer needed, but for now, we live to please Beatrice, whose demands get more unrealistic by the day. Personally, I think there are actual employees at Google who, for fun on a slow day, type in ridiculous commands for Beatrice to relay to poor, lost souls, and then laugh and laugh in their little air conditioned offices at the havoc they wreak. But I digress.

The most promising garage sale proclaimed from the Craigslist rooftops (meaning their ad was typed in all caps) that they were having a massive moving sale and everything in the house must go. This translated into a small driveway with a mirror, a cooler, and a box of small, random items. Thanks for that, jackies.

After some strange price negotiating, I did get a sweet set of red, square plates at a garage sale raising money for a kid’s soccer team to go to Norway. I discovered the plates while Taylor was haggling over some plastic lawn chairs. I asked the closest little soccer player, who appeared to be bursting with joy at my presence amongst her carefully arranged sale items,how much they were. She said in a rush “Fivedollarsoronedollarfortheset!” I’m sorry, I said, so you’re asking five dollars for the set? No, she replied, just one dollar. “One dollar for four big plates, two little plates, and a bowl?” I asked. Her mother appeared and confirmed that this price would be acceptable. Perhaps because I had just had so many awful garage sales myself, I responded,“There is no way I’m taking all of these for one dollar, I’ll give you at least three.” I may be the only person on earth arguing to pay a higher price at a garage sale, but squishing tiny Norway soccer dreams isn’t something I want on my soul's tab. I paid my three dollars and left, feeling disappointed that there was only one bowl, but reasoning that I could find red bowls almost anywhere. This, however, turned out to be sadly untrue. There is someone in this town, and one day I will find her, who is on the same quest for red bowls that I am, and she is ahead of me. Every store I’ve gone to has bowls in every color of the rainbow except red; they are always out of red. Eventually, this person will tire of filling their cupboard with red bowls, and I will be victorious in my quest. Until then, only one of us will be having cereal for breakfast around this apartment. This should be fine, since Taylor is currently set on making everything he eats in the toaster oven. 

We found a neat little dresser for $25 at another garage sale, wrought though it was with creepy crawlies. I was happily moving it into the back of the truck when, after setting it on its side, I saw a long-legged, fanged thing scurrying across the bottom, ready to defend the dozen or so egg sacs it had laid in the corners. I danced around for a good five minutes after that, shaking my hands and uttering obscenities while Taylor cleaned them all off. Even though I cleaned it thoroughly once we got home, I still triple check every thread of my underwear before putting them on. When I am gone from this world, an entry into “Top 15 Most Bizarre Hospital Visits of 2013” is not the legacy I want to leave behind.

Craigslist deals are pretty cutthroat around here. You have to get the app on your phone and then watch it like a hawk, because if you don’t call within five minutes, it gets snatched up. Or so I assume, since no one would text me back for the first two days. Finally, around midnight, a leather couch posted and I texted within seconds. When I got a text back I felt like I’d won the lottery.

When we went to pick it up, I texted the address to my friend Steven with instructions to call the swat team and send them with guns if I didn’t text him within five minutes of my arrival. Then I got to chatting with the nice man selling the couch, who was offering to get Taylor some information on a job, and almost forgot to text Steven. That could have been a fun ordeal. Better safe than sorry, we all know that Craigslist killers don’t come from Idaho, those sick bastards hail from the east.

We’re still searching for a suitable coffee table, though Taylor spent a good portion of the day constructing one out of cardboard boxes and duct tape. It will take some convincing on my part for him to agree that this is not suitable furniture for company.

When done with garage sales for the day, the next order of business was to find a bed. Taylor and I have been meaning to get a new bed for a long time, mostly because he sleeps like a man who has suddenly found himself in the thick of a wasp’s nest. It is not uncommon for me to wake up in the middle of the night, thinking there’s an earthquake, only to realize that the only thing shaking is our bed because Taylor is flopping around all over the place in a dead sleep. I am an unbearable monster of a woman when I’m tired, so in order to save Taylor from any further confrontations with that monster, I was taking this bed thing seriously. I wasn’t walking out of that store without a bed that could actually hold a glass of wine upright while I hurled bowling balls onto its surface.

Now, like any car lot, a mattress store is never complete without a fast-talking, sleazy salesman. This was no exception. After explaining what I needed, we were immediately led to a $3000 bed that, according to the salesman, was the only thing in the world that was going to solve my sleeping problems. I informed him that I would never, in a million years, spend $3000 on a bed. “But it has individually wrapped coils”, he said. “Are they made of solid gold?” I asked. He answered by pulling out a little coil sample that compares regular coils with these magical, individually wrapped coils. “See this?” he asked, pushing the coils down with a cardboard cutout that was supposed to represent the side of my sleeping body. I could sense that it was going to be awhile as he launched into the wonders of those damn individually wrapped coils, so I flopped onto my stomach on the nearest bed with my chin in my hands, looking expectant. I let him run through the entire speech, mostly because interrupting had no effect on his diatribe. After listening, wide-eyed, to the perils of a coil without its very own wrapping, I repeated that spending $3000 on a bed was something best left to the Kardashians. “Listen,” he said, “do you know why people won’t spend a lot of money on a bed? Because they can’t show it off. It’s the most important thing you’ll ever buy but because you can’t show it off to your friends, you go cheap.” Oh, you insightful, commission hungry little do-gooder. “You listen,” I said, “I’d show my bed off to anyone, anytime. I’m gonna post a picture of that sucker on Facebook, so drop the cheapskate assumptions and show me a bed that doesn’t cost more than three months rent.” For whatever reason, Tom the store manager took over the sale at this point. Pulling out the big guns, I see.

Tom exclaimed that it was my lucky day (isn’t it always) because they just happened to have some beds in the back of the store that I could afford without going into early retirement due to a bad back as a result of sleeping on them. (And wouldn’t you know it, not one of them had the dreaded multi-coils-in-just-one-wrapping issue.) I went rolling into the back, pulled these mattresses onto to the floor, laid down, and instructed Taylor to give it everything he had. I did this until I found a mattress that allowed me to lay in perfect, undisturbed slumber while Taylor jumped, wriggled and danced all the hell over it. Throughout this process, Tom was rattling off the various reasons why I would consider myself lucky to sleep on each mattress, which I interrupted at my leisure when I was ready for the next tryout.

Before I handed over any money, I looked up some reviews on my phone, announcing that I was doing so in case they had any confessions to make. Tom had some trash to talk: “Well, there may be some reviews on this chain of mattress stores, but like I tell everyone, there are no reviews on Tom.” Okay Tom, I’m not buying you, so go sit down for a minute.

There were indeed some ugly reviews about this particular store, so I asked Tom how long he had worked there. He informed me that he had been with this company for two years, but he’d been selling mattresses since he came out of the womb. Sure, Tom, sure. All I want to know is, if I have any kind of problem with my bed, am I going to be able to call this place up and talk to you, or are you quitting tomorrow? He assured me that he would be there to assist in all my mattress troubles, should there be any. Okay, I said, and if I call you, are you going to give me a 1-800 number and then head to lunch? Oh no, he said, all problems are handled in store. Well, I replied, I couldn’t help but overhear your phone call earlier, where you directed a customer with a warranty issue to the corporate number. After a moment of silence in which Tom smiled wryly at me, he informed me that that particular customer’s complaint was ridiculous. She was calling to inform him that, while doing “her business”,the bed would squeak. Dear lord.

Well, Tom, I don’t want any issues with a squeaky bed, but if that or any other ridiculous problem should arise, I guess I should expect that it can’t be handled instore? Well, he said importantly, you went with the individually wrapped coils, so you won’t run into that problem.

Really, I was tired of the words “individually wrapped coils”, and I really wanted to go home. So, I bought the bed, with assurances that he would make it fit into our truck when it came in on Wednesday because, after all, he just bought his own set of individually wrapped coils and got it home by strapping it to the roof of his Saturn. I bet you did, Tom, I just bet you did.

Since I am unashamed of buying a mattress and still having enough money for groceries, expect pictures soon, and a full tour should you stop by for a visit.

In other news, whenever the WiFi network list pops up on my computer, I see one that says “FBI Van”. Mmm Hmm.

The closest gas station is the WaWa, a name that we’ve had an excellent time making fun of. I mean really, “I’m going to the WaWa, you need anything?” Also, they don’t sell beer at the gas stations here. In Maryland, only the liquor stores can handle serious business like that.  

Speaking of the WaWa, Taylor decided he needed to head down there on his skateboard last night at 9:30. I predicted that certain death would arise from this venture and begged him not to go. He insisted that it would be fine, so I sent him with my pepper spray and instructions to text me the second he arrived, and then again as he was leaving. He obliged, and while he made it there and back without being assaulted by the shady characters I imagined hiding in the bushes, it was the worst ten minutes of my life. It was dark outside and he didn’t make it any easier by insisting that I keep the doors locked while he was gone.

Things are shaping up around the apartment and it’s starting to look like people live here. Taylor has claimed the main bathroom and it was only after arguing that guests would use that bathroom, should we have any, that I was able to avoid decorating it with a cheap, plastic Star Wars shower curtain.

The bugs around here are really something. One monster mosquito gets into the apartment and the safari hunt is on, failure means a swollen bite on your right ear (I speak from experience, folks). After hearing the noises from my back patio on the first night, I spent the next day searching the masses of trees for some sign of the tropical birds and other wildlife that I was sure were living in there. I came to the conclusion that, while they must certainly be there, they must be nocturnal. This belief persisted until one of the locals educated me about cicadas. How an insect can make that much noise, I’ll never know. The same local also told me all about cicada killers after I told him a detailed story about how my life had been threatened by the inch and a half long insect that interrupted my morning coffee. He assured me that I would come to no harm while sharing my balcony with said bug, but I remain cautious.

Tomorrow, I attempt to drive somewhere that isn’t Idaho and isn’t a freeway. I’ve got a thing about driving here, and by a thing, I mean I’m scared to death. I would be happy to have Taylor escort me around for the next five years, but it’s possible that that’s too far outside the bounds of reason. I don’t know how to avoid tollbooths if I need to get outside of the little city we live in, I assume that when I’m unsure where to turn, the people behind me will start shooting immediately, and since it took me until I was twenty years old to know where everything was in Idaho Falls, there is no hope for me here. If you don’t see another Facebook note detailing my east coast driving adventures, just assume someone took me out for not rolling through a stop sign fast enough.

Notes on a cross-country trip, day 4

We stopped in Indiana last night and, in an effort to stem the tide of money pouring out of our bank account, we decided to stay at a Days Inn off the freeway for a cool $68 per night. It is fortunate that I was too exhausted to really care about anything, or I may have been alarmed by the people creeping around outside the doors at such a late hour, or by the static electrical buzzing coming out of the air conditioner in the office, or the feebly blinking neon light in the window. It’s like I’ve never watched a horror film before.

 I walked in to the room, taking care to keep my shoes on at all times and touching as little as possible. After a quick inspection of the sheets to assure myself that I would be the only living thing on them for the night, I deposited my things on the bed and headed for the shower. One look at the discolored tub had me standing in frozen uncertainty for a moment, convincing myself that I was morally capable of showering in a place where someone may or may not have woken up in the recent past, surrounded by ice, one kidney lighter. I almost wore shoes in the shower.

When I walked out of the bathroom, Taylor was nowhere to be found. My first thought, naturally, was that he had been kidnapped. Then, more reasonably, that he had forgotten something in the truck and would be back soon. I decided if he wasn’t back by the time I had brushed my teeth, I would alert the authorities. You’ll be relieved to know that he showed back up before I had closed the toothpaste tube.

For good measure, we put a chair up against the door before going to sleep, and we came out of that experience no worse for the wear. Although, at one point today, my ankle had an itch and I was convinced that I’d contracted some type of rabid, skin-eating disease. Since all my skin is still intact, I guess I was just being dramatic, but we’ll see about that.

We had breakfast at a Waffle House, where I ordered a waffle, a grilled cheese sandwich, and a cup of coffee. Just thought you should know. Breakfast entertainment consisted of an agitated young man walking back and forth in front of the restaurant window, wearing one of those parolee ankle bracelets and a bandana that was knotted in the front, 2Pac style, while I serenaded Taylor with lyrics by Atmosphere: “Man it feels good to be a gaaangsta”. When this fella walked inside, I stuffed my mouth with waffle and pretended to stare interestedly at the gas station across the street.

We then proceeded to drive through the rest of Indiana, on through Ohio, a ten-minute pass through West Virginia, and then into Pennsylvania to stay the night. We are, like, 300 miles from our destination and should arrive there tomorrow afternoon (tomorrow being Friday). This blows my mind. Also weird to me is seeing people do normal things in places so far from home. Oh, look at these cute little Ohioans going grocery shopping after work; I used to do that, too!

The speakers are back on strike. Sometimes, if you kick them just right, they’ll sputter for a few drunken moments. But since I got tired of kicking the speaker on my side, we’re back to cursing them in silence. Occasionally, I burst out in song, just to keep us awake, or insist that Taylor check out the hilarious video I found on YouTube before I remember that he should really stay focused on the road.

We had an alarming few minutes where we thought we’d lost Beatrice. Her little blue arrow had disappeared from my screen and even though I searched and searched through both my apps and the play store, she was gone. I thought I would be happy to get rid of that shrew, but I needed her despite her devious ways, and I felt empty inside without her nagging in the background. A quick Google search informed me that a recent update, which I had installed that morning, had merged Beatrice into Google maps. I rushed over to Google maps, shouted in a random destination, and waited with bated breath to see what happened. After a few nerve-wracking moments, Beatrice went live (sounding smug), and all was right with the world again. Serves me right for complaining about her. Without her, I’d still be driving circles in Kansas City, trying to find the onramp to I70.

People are still quite friendly and I’m still waiting for that to stop. I was at a Walgreens (it’s like a comfort blanket, but less people make fun of you) in Ohio when I walked in front of someone browsing the cereals. I said, “Excuse me”, and he responded with a smile and a “Yes ma’am”. I could have let the moment pass, but instead, I got a stupid smile on my face and faltered in my steps, because I was expecting him to call me a name at the very least. I guess he decided he was done with the cereal aisle then because he hurried off in the other direction.

Children are out in full force today. I was in the one-stall restroom of a grocery store in Ohio when someone started pounding on the door. I called out that they needed to hang on for just a minute and when I walked out, I didn’t see anyone at first. Then I looked down and found a tiny little girl glowering up at me, arms crossed. Suddenly, I was afraid to be alone with her in the back of the store, so I ran to find Taylor. I find it best not to underestimate little children; they know how to create mayhem.

Later on, we stopped at a restaurant called “Steak and Shake”, which was amazing. I had just finished a hamburger doused in chipotle mayo, jalapenos, pepperjack cheese, and some other messy stuff, and was kicking back with a chocolate covered strawberry milkshake (you wouldn’t have been able to resist either, had you seen the picture on the menu) when a young woman walked in with her little girl. This little girl wasn’t happy with the choice of restaurant and was making sure the restaurant at large was aware of that fact. The mother instructed her to sit down at the booth directly behind me and in response, the girl flung her little body down onto the booth with all her might and moaned, Scarlett O’Hara style, “I hate my life!” to which the mother responded, “You don’t even know anything about your life yet!”

Have I mentioned the humidity? Oh, the humidity! (Get it? Like, Oh, the humanity! Okay, moving on.) My dear friend Steven, who just relocated to Alabama, texted me before I left and assured me that the humidity was like a warm hug. Yeah, a warm hug from a heavy mouth breather, it’s sick!

In other news, we went through another tollbooth and I handled myself like a lady this time, other than almost choking when they asked us to hand over $9.10. Interstate robbery!

I did have a minor issue later in the day when my seatbelt locked up as I was trying to pull it on. I was tired, my legs felt like jelly, I was feeling crowded by all the stuff I had sitting on the seat, I needed a shower, and the truck smelled funny. The seatbelt giving me crap just wasn’t welcome in my life at that point. So, I started yanking it with every muscle in my right arm, yelling with each mighty pull, “I. Am. Not. In. A. Wreck. You. Idiot! And if I were, a lot of good you’d be doing me since I can’t even BUCKLE. MYSELF. IN.” After the last red-faced huff, I stopped, took a deep breath (why does this truck smell like beans?!), and pulled the belt down slowly, clicking it into place. As we pulled away from the gas station, Taylor patted my knee softly and said, “I know”, which made me laugh hysterically.

When we finally made it to our last hotel of the trip, I fell in love with the lady at the desk, who I imagine was from Boston because, in my mind, anyone with a cool accent is from Boston. When we got to our room, the door wouldn’t open, so she came from the office and manhandled that sucker, chatting away to me all the while, “The daws (doors) are a little swollen from all the moistcha (moisture), you just gotta push haawd (hard) afta you put the key in. Cwall (call) me if you need anything else honey, I’m right theya (there) at the desk awl (all) night”. I almost broke something in the room on purpose so she’d come back.

I did finally figure out that smell while looking for my phone charger. Taylor had purchased a microwaveable burrito on Tuesday and never got around to microwaving it at the hotel. Unbeknownst to me, he had stowed it in the glove box the next morning, deciding that would probably work just as well as a refrigerator.

Notes on a cross-country trip, day 3

First and foremost, we survived our first tollbooth. I was reading a book when I looked up and saw the signs announcing its arrival. I threw the book across the cab and started scrambling for my wallet, swearing like a sailor, spare change flying all over the place and beaning Taylor in the head. I ignored his frustrated command to return to my book reading; my loyal Facebook friends had prepared me for this moment and he needed me. I became confused as each car came to a full stop at the tollbooth – I was on the edge of my seat, fully prepared for speeding past the window and chucking out the correct amount of change, thereby proving to the people behind us that whatever conceptions they had about our Idaho license plates were dead wrong. It all turned out to be very anticlimactic, the booth was manned (womaned?) by a very good-natured lady who took Taylor’s ten-dollar bill (with me hissing in the background “Exact change!! She’s gonna cut you!!”) and handed him his change back with a smile and the best of wishes for the rest of our day. We pulled away and Taylor gave me a smug look that I pretended not to see as I put my wallet back with all the dignity I could muster. Just wait, I told him, you’ll be grateful for me when we hit tollbooths further east, where people straight murder other people for not conforming to the strict tollbooth customs that I am quite sure exist.

People were much kinder in Kansas than in Colorado, and even nicer in Missouri. I feel like a novelty around here when people find out we’re from Idaho, we may as well be from Mongolia for as shocked as people seem when they find out. And no potato comments so far, I’ll take it. I was starting to wonder if my notions of the rest of the country being a pit of murder and despair were wrong, but then I saw a billboard on the side of the interstate that said, “People are being sold. Report it” complete with a bunch of little hands reaching up from the bottom of the board to a website for reporting human trafficking. Nope, nothing but evil, starting at the Colorado border.

You’ll be happy to know that we’ve found plenty of Walgreens in which to pass the time when I can’t stand another second in the truck. Upon waking up from a thirty-minute snooze with a serious crick in my neck, we stopped at one in Illinois and, of course, they had just what I needed: one of those chunky little neck pillows for a sweet ten bucks. Walgreens always has your back, unless you need antibiotics in Denver, then it’s every man for himself.  

The humidity appears to agree with the speakers, which began working again today, scaring the crap out of us when the silent cab suddenly exploded with the booming vocals of a very impassioned pastor. Beyond that, the only thing the humidity has given us is the responsibility of wiping everything off that came with us between the truck and hotel door, since everything is covered in condensation after that 30-second jaunt.

Upon finding out that the most exciting thing to see in Kansas was the world’s biggest ball of sisal twine, we decided not to linger, though we did have lunch in Kansas City. It was a whole lot of madness trying to drive around that enormous place, and I never saw anything green. Just concrete and then some more concrete. Beatrice (our trusty phone navigator) spent the entire time re-routing us because we kept missing turns. At one point, after a second failed attempt to take the left turn onto 11^th street that she had suggested, her forward (and, I swear, annoyed) little voice said “Make an immediate U-turn on Franklin and turn right on 11^thstreet”, when taking that U-turn would have introduced the front of our truck to the concrete divider separating the two flows of traffic. Well played,Beatrice, well played. Also, I never realized how much I took parking for granted in Idaho. Want to stop at a restaurant in Idaho Falls? No problem. Pull a U-turn in the middle of the street, sans concrete divider, and come to a full stop alongside the restaurant. Want to stop at a restaurant in Kansas City? No problem. Just drive past it a few miles it through a sea of vehicles and pedestrians, fistfight someone for a spot, and then walk back to the restaurant in the sweltering heat. You got this.

Back to the humidity: this is a bad situation for my already unattended state of attractiveness. Having hair that is neither curly nor straight means I have hair that is frizzy. This was fine in Idaho, where I could just tackle it with a straightener and move on with my life. Here, I tackle it with a straightener, walk outside, and feel it afro-tizing. I’m sure the locals think I’m a quite a sight when I step out of the truck looking tired and harassed, with my hair simultaneously tangled from the wind (we’ve found that the air conditioner works better if we give it a break now and then, at which time we cruise along with the windows down), weighed down from the water-soaked air, but with numerous pieces frizzing out all over the place. I need to stay out of the big cities so I don’t get snagged by one of those crazy daytime makeover shows. I’m a prime candidate at this point.

We’ve passed some of the time thoroughly abusing a senator on NPR because his last name was Dingle, as well as a town we passed because it was called Effingham (effing ham!) and keeping an eye out for White Castle restaurants. Acting your age isn’t necessary once the odometer has rolled back to zero because you’ve driven more miles than it can count.

On another note entirely, if you’ve ever wondered how Amazon can get a package to you on a Tuesday morning when you ordered it Monday nightat 11:30 pm, it’s because the UPS trucks haul some ass on these freeways. You best be getting out of the way when you see one of those, they have important UPS shit to do and they mean business.

Currently, I’m passing the time by blasting ridiculous, old music on my beloved MacBook, singing along to gems like Whoomp, there it is,and Lyrical Gangsta (muuurderaaaa, cha cha chang chang) complete with some sweet upper body moves to keep the atmosphere kickin’. You’ll have to ask Taylor how he feels about that. 

Notes on a cross-country trip, days 1 & 2

We are just over 1000 miles in and, so far, so good. The trip out of Idaho and through Wyoming was fairly uneventful, unless you count that I got myself covered in spiny little plant seeds on a roadside bathroom break while trying to climb down far enough to be out of traffic's view (don't judge me, I really had to pee), or the occasional outburst of hysterical tears fromTaylor…okay, that was me. I was soaking in the mountain views while I still could,when I would suddenly be assaulted by thoughts of how much I love spending time with my family, or how much I love going fishing in Travis Brown’s boat, or how much I love dropping in on any of our friends whenever I want, or how much I loved napping on my beautiful couch in my beautiful house in a town that I knew like the back of my hand, and I’d spend the next five minutes trying to re-establish a natural breathing rhythm. After the first few hours, I realized that I just needed to stop thinking about home for a while, like maybe for the next year or so. This is an adventure, dammit, and there’s no crying on an adventure!

Let it be noted that, after spending a fair amount of money in the ITunes store to ensure a musically satisfactory trip, the speakers went on strike somewhere around Fort Collins. Good thing Taylor and I find the art of comfortable silence to be an essential part of every solid relationship.  

I’m convinced that one has to pee more when on a road trip. I have a theory about this, not like a scientific theory, or even a common sense theory, more like a too much thinking time theory: your body doesn’t have to focus on trivial things like walking and balance, so instead, it focuses on the big inside jobs as soon as you click the seat belt in. Fifteen minutes after the rest stop and those last few sips of water are through the kidneys and out the door – you’re already checking for the next exit.

Another product of too much thinking time: I’ve always wanted a chameleon. So, I’m getting one, and I’m naming it Phred. Get it? PhD? PHreD? Yeah.

Notes on Colorado:

I was expecting a change in attitude in the general population once we got further east, but apparently, you don’t have to wait that long. People in Colorado are straight up pissed off at living. Out of the ten or so stops we made, two people smiled at us, and one of those people was the friend we stayed with Monday night.

One example of the cheery disposition to be found in this rocky landscape came to us in the form of a pharmacist at Walgreens. We had the good fortune of Taylor’s two-week old spider bite becoming infected and swelling up like a water balloon on the first night of our trip. So, we headed to an Urgent Care for some antibiotics on the way out of town. Here we encountered the second, and last, smiling person before Kansas. Side note: he wasn’t smiling when we said we didn’t have insurance, wasn’t smiling as we explained that we were between insurance policies because we were moving to a different state, and wasn’t smiling when I politely declined to give himTaylor’s social security number; the smile came when we assured him that we would be paying for the visit, in full, before we walked out the door.

This visit to Urgent Care consisted of a lot of waiting, followed by a rousing game of Twenty Questions where Taylor had to divulge all health information from his great-grandparents on down, followed by two minutes with the doctor, who poked the bump on his arm and announced that she would be prescribing him some antibiotics. For this gem of medical wisdom, we were charged $180.

 Afterward, we amble off to Walgreens, where our prescription has been sent, already two hours past our intended start time for the day. When we arrive, there are two people standing behind the counter, chillin’ in the air conditioning. Taylor gives his name and the young man says they just got the fax and that it might be a minute. I make to sit down in the waiting room chairs when the other person behind the counter speaks up, informing me that I better not be expecting that prescription anytime soon. I raise my eyebrows at her tone but remain polite, asking when we might be allowed to expect it. She replies that sometime after 3:00 sounds about right. I check my phone: it’s 11:45. I explain that we are in the middle of a long drive and need to be leaving this rotten state soon (refraining from actually verbalizing the rotten part), and is there any way we could get the prescription sooner? She responds by yelling “Three o’clock!” and walks away. Well, then. I call the doctor’s office and ask if they can send the prescription anywhere else, since we really need to get going. The previously mentioned second-smiler answered the phone and said he would give Walgreens a call and see if they couldn’t speed it up a little.

I’m sitting near the pharmacy when I hear the cranky lady answer the phone. Oh, great, she’s going to know who put the doctor’s office up to this and she’s going to slip something into Taylor’s antibiotics. I hear her speaking firmly about how backed up she is and I hear the phone slam down. Then her evil face appears in one of the windows as she backs up slowly from the phone, sideways, and fixes me with the eyeball facing my direction. “One o’clock”, she growls, and then stalks away. I try to look serious until she disappears and then move on to one of my favorite things: browsing Walgreens.

 I’m actually not joking about that, I used to get up early once in awhile just so I’d have time to stop at Walgreens on my way to work in Idaho Falls. I love their clearance shelves, their As Seen on TV products, and those two aisles in the middle that change with every season. I found an excellent little address book for $1.50 and one of those Ritter chocolate bars with the huge hazelnuts that I’ve never found anywhere other than a Walgreen’s candy aisle. I was pretty pleased with my haul when 1:00 rolled around and I walked back to the pharmacy, feeling non-confrontational.

By this time, a different woman was behind the counter, and she wasn’t looking like she loved her job. She called us up and, when we told her the name, went rooting around for our prescription in a plastic bin behind her. I watched her dig it up from under a pile of other filled prescriptions, which made me suspicious that it had been filled quite awhile before 1:00, but I decided to occupy myself with another bite of the Ritter bar rather than smarting off about it. She walked back up and said, “What’s your address” in one of those “I’d rather be anywhere than standing here looking at your face” voices. I started rattling off our Maryland address, which is what I had given the doctor’s office. Before I could finish, she interrupted with “That’s notwhat I have here”, and then she proceeded to stare at me. “Um”, I said, always grievously annoyed when interrupted, “well, that’s what I gave them”. Again, she says, “That’s not what I have here”. Okay, I think we’ve covered the fact that you don’t have that, but we can stand here arguing all day and my actual address isn’t going to change. As she continues to stare at me without so much as a blink, I get ready to lay some smack down. Taylor, who is well versed in Tiffany body language, steps in and suggests that, perhaps, they put in the Idaho address that was on his driver’s license. So he tells her that address and she nods, now satisfied that we aren’t attempting to steal someone else’s antibiotics to fuel the raging drug trade, because lord knows that getting some ID from Taylor wouldn’t have given her any peace of mind. I plug my mouth with another hazelnut and let Taylor handle the situation.

As she rings us up, loudly complaining to no one in particular that her co-workers need to learn how to prioritize, I hear evil-eye lady talking to another customer about gluten-free cookies in a very sweet, high-pitched voice. I scoff a little around my Ritter bar and remark that that’s the nicest voice I’ve heard all day. The lady ringing us up says “Tell me about it” and throws our bag across the counter. I wasn’t terribly sad to leave Colorado.

Notes on Kansas:

So far, it is just getting muggy around this joint. I’m talking just walked into an indoor public pool filled with children, muggy. There is no escaping it, either. If you’re in a vehicle in Idaho and you’re feeling a little sweaty, you roll down the window and let in some air; try rolling down the window here and the air will sucker punch you. Even the air conditioner is feeling it, as evidenced by the vapor it has started spitting out of the vents since we got here, which at first had me convinced that the engine was on fire. That was a good moment. Since it feels like I’m burning several hundred calories each time I try to inhale a little oxygen, I’m compensating by eating every time I see a restaurant with a cool name. More later on how that works out for my figure. Also, they post a minimum speed limit on the freeway here, which I think Idaho could seriously benefit from doing. As far as the air, though, Idaho has the good stuff on lock.