denying I have a problem

My addictions are back, and I've made a dangerous discovery--they compliment each other. No need to worry, though, it's not like it's cocaine and tightrope walking or anything, it's just caffeine and Free Cell.

Over a year ago I dropped caffeine after I started to suspect that it was giving me heart palpitations. However, during our trip across country I took it back up and now I indulge almost every day--a soda here, a cup of tea there. I'm kind of upset with myself for succumbing to it after months of hard-fought independence, but it's just that getting into a new work schedule is brutal, and by early afternoon I'm crashing between acronym-riddled project meetings and draining phone conversations about PowerPoint slides. So I grab a cup of liquid strength and sit down to a Free Cell game or two. Or ten. I try to stop, but I find that playing clears my head and jump-starts my productivity. Plus, that extra boost from the caffeine really sends me flying through the cards. Last week I hit a new record: 32 wins in a row. I know. I'm sick, but i can't help it! At least I'm not playing for money and I'm not nearly as deranged as the people who play in Free Cell tournaments. (Yes, there IS such a thing.) Those guys play 30 games per hour! I'm not nearly up to par with that kind of performance. Maybe I should practice more. I've never liked coffee much but I have a feeling that we could become fast friends...

boycott underwear

I'm no prude, but I think Victoria's Secret has finally gone too far. As I flipped through the fall catalog of lace thongs, stocking garters, and crotchless panties, I was struck by the peculiar vulgarity of this contraption:

Ooh-la-lecch!

This particular brassiere is constructed in such a way as to allow the maximum amount of cleavage exposure, or as they call it 'plunging neckline', without having to suffer the pesky modesty of underwear getting in the way. Of course, I have no beef with cleavage, or boobs in general, really. (I don't so much believe in "if you've got it, flaunt it" as I do in "even if you don't got it, it's a free country, so entice/horrify at your own discretion".) No, my righteous horror has nothing to do with decency, but with fashion. Now, I'm no fasion guru and I know that bras are meant to be worn under one's clothes (except on the most special of occasions), but that doesn't mean that they are allowed to be this ugly. Christ. I was physically repulsed at the sight of this bra. It's a fucking disaster. It's so awful, in fact, that it gives this monstrosity a good run for the money:

Even she looks pissed at having to wear it, and she's getting PAID for it.

Ugh. No more shopping at VS for me. I didn't mind the child labor sweatshops, but I draw the line at visual terrorism.

strange neighbor fellows

Despite the fact that my brain is finally firming back up from the mush that the recent week on the road reduced it to, I have decided to continue to bore you all with the mundane details of my everyday life. Today, we're talking about neighbors.

We met several of our next door neighbors on the day that we unpacked the moving trailer. We were trudging up the stairs, boxes in tow, and when we reached our landing the door next to ours opened and a horde of children ran screaming out of their apartment followed by billows of toxic white smoke and a panicked woman in a worn housedress. The four small children huddled on the tiny third floor patio with their hands clamped over their ears against the wailing fire alarm, crying and yelling for their mother who was still inside the apartment dealing with the cause of the smoke. She soon emerged to borrow my burly manfriend, whose lab safety training must have done him some good as he soon found the source of the problem--a plastic toy that had been placed in the oven and had burst into flames--and saved the day. The mother babbled her gratitude in Spanglish, the children stopped screaming, the grandmother returned (I'm still not sure if she ran for help or just ran), and we continued on with our move. That evening we decided that renter's insurance might not be such a bad investment after all. I also checked the height of the drop from our balcony, just in case the hallway is ever on fire and we have to jump ship. It's a pretty steep drop, but I figure if I avoid landing on the cement porch below and roll once I hit the grass (without hitting the treeline), I could probably survive. In any case, it probably beats burning to death.

Several nights later we came home after dark, allowing us to peek inside the lit apartments from the parking lot. One of our downstairs neighbor's shades were open and she had all of her lights on, so we could clearly see into her living room. Thus, we discovered this:

In case you can't tell from the mediocre photograph, that is in fact a fully-trimmed Christmas tree. Now, I must admit that the previous week I had watched Love Actually, a film set in the Christmas season, but in my defense I believe that there is a very clear line between the pleasure of watching a snowy holiday film in the middle of August, and the insanity of actually keeping a decorated tree up year-round. Oh, I'm not being fair. She's probably a very nice yet eccentric person who, for one reason or another, chooses to celebrate Christmas in August instead of December with everyone else. Maybe it makes the shopping easier, I don't know. If I ever gather the courage to talk to her, I'll make sure to ask when Halloween is--it would be a tragedy to miss out on any trick-or-treating just because she's completely bonkers.

Finally, last weekend we moved my brother's ginormous couch into our apartment. Rather, with the amount of sweat, grunting, cursing and weak cheering upon success, it felt like we birthed the couch more than moved it. Whatever, the point is that we met our other next door neighbors--two gentlemen that generously assisted us during the delivery. We were extremely thrilled to not only have friendly neighbors (the Spanish-speaking family with the kids next door is nice enough, just a little loud and difficult to communicate with) but to have neighbors who shared a common interest--archery. J had just started researching archery ranges to pick the sport back up again, and the bow cases that they were carrying up the stairs caught his eye. You know what caught my eye? The mounted animal heads that covered every inch of their living room walls. One of the men leaned out of his front door to shake my hand, pulling the door closed as much as possible. I thought he was just being private, or that they might be gay and just wary of public scrutiny. And then I saw the giant deer head hovering over the armchair. When he opened the door to retreat into his apartment I caught the full view: deer, bears, bobcats, ducks, elk--nearly any damn thing you can shoot was mounted on their wall. It look so crowded that I wondered if they felt self-conscious sitting in the room, staring down the blank marble eyes of those they had slain. Now I really hope that they are gay. Not just because that would be awesome (how many kill-hungry redneck gay couples can there be in the world, anyway?), but because I find the prospect of a stable relationship more reassuring than the possibility that they're just two guys who like killing things so much that they live together in their den of death. J said they might have stuffed humans in the back rooms. Oh God. I really really hope that this whole hunting thing is just an attempt to butch up. Maybe if we feed them cookies they won't hurt us. That's a law of the jungle, right? Don't shoot the hand that feeds you cookies?

We have yet to meet many of our neighbors, but after these recent revelations, I think I'll take it slow. Those two little Vietnamese boys who live downstairs sure seemed sweet, but you just never know. Their eighty-year-old grandmother seemed a little sketchy...

DAY 7: Tuesday, 8 August

We bag up the rest of the fruits and vegetables from the refrigerator, do some laundry and set out on the highway once again--this time for our final day of driving. Pennsylvania is scenic but a little bossy.

Finally, we arrive in Maryland that evening. We stop at a Cracker Barrel to return the book on tape that we borrowed somewhere in Oklahoma (I think). It was a spyish novel by Le Carre, narrated by the author himself, but we never finished it. I think it was called Abosolute Friends, or something like that. It involved two guys that are friends for years and years and meet up to save the world or something. It was kind of interesting, but he did voices for all of his characters, including annoying falsettos for the women, and Sasha's effeminate Russian/German accent and long-winded Communist soliloquies grated on our nerves after a while. I'm tempted to check the book out from the library and finish the last chapters, but I'm not really that motivated. I'm just going to assume the climax of the book is when the reader discovers that Sasha and Teddy are gay for each other. And if that's actually the case, all I can say is "called it!".

I include this crappy picture of a highway sign because: a) It's kind of cool-looking, actually, and b) This accurately represents how we were feeling at this point in our journey--so close to our destination and woozy as hell.

That night the moon was huge and kind of orange. I tried to get a picture of it, but with limited success. But it was so beautiful that I just had to keep trying. I was nearly laughed out of the car for my many many attempts to capture the skyline on 'film.' At the time I was a little peeved, but then I checked the digital reel--I took approximately one gazillion pictures of the goddamn moon and all of them look like shit. So, I guess I deserved at least some of the mockery. Damn.

Stupid moon

FINALLY, after battling through surprisingly thick traffic at 10PM, we reach my mom's house. I think she fed us before we passed out downstairs, but I don't really remember. Whatever, we made it, baby, and that's all that matters.

DAY 6: Monday, 7 August

We finally arrive in Ohio, our pre-determined resting spot. As the parents-out-law have recently been called away to the home country, the house is all ours. Not having a key of our own, we refer to the treasure map that was emailed to us a few days before (ie, pictures of the house key's hidden location in the backyard). Success!! We invade.

Anticipating a certain amount of bored exhaustion, we head for the local Blockbuster for a movie. We select George Clooney's Good Night and Good Luck but decide against watching it that evening. Instead, we choose a shameful piece of fluff comedy. We slink up to the desk, hiding the second case with our artsy pick. Alas, the cashier's lack of savvy coolness (or perhaps her evil sense of humor) leads her to call out the film's title loudly, for all patrons to hear: "Good Night and Good Luck is due next week and She's the Man is due back on Wednesday!". We sprint to the getaway car.

We return home ravenous for real food. Having never really cooked in this particular kitchen before (during visits our duties are mostly limited to table-setting and salad), we venture cautiously into the refrigerator and grab perishable items to eat, since they are likely to expire before anyone returns to the house. Spicy catfish and kimchi await us, along with a head of lettuce and half a dozen bell peppers. Oh a whim, we grab the block of tofu as well. Upon slicing it up, we realize it would be extremely unwise to eat it all in one sitting, but fry all of it anyway in case we want some for breakfast. Our feast is strange but delicious. We settle into the couch to watch our stupid movie. As expected, it is stupid (though it be loosely based on Shakespeare's Twelfth Night), but Amanda Bines' goofy-ass proves fairly entertaining.

The next morning I eat toast in the newly-constructed sun room and watch the birds and squirrels devour the seed set out in the bird-feeders. The squirrel looks a little mangey, but the chipmunk that shows up is cute as hell. He stuffs his cheeks full and bounds happily away.

So cute!!

That evening a friend comes by for dinner and a movie (George Clooney, this time). We make him work for his meal--we all sit around the kitchen table and fill and fold about a gazillion pork and apple chutney dumplings. Finally, the work is done and we settle down to a dinner of dumplings and leftover catfish, salad and tofu. We talk and laugh, then watch the movie. I enjoyed it, especially as a parallel snapshot of our times, but I must admit to liking most Clooney movies, even the awful ones. I never liked him back when he was on ER but then he did O Brother, Where Art Thou? and BAM! I was in love. He and Amanda should make awesome movies together.

This doesn't really fit in anywhere, but I must mention it simply because it is possibly the ugliest thing I've ever seen:

Oh, the humanity!

I don't think it's scented like anything, but I can't say for certain one way or another. If it does smell like anything, I would have to guess that its either 'pine fresh' or 'elf aura'. I hear tell that this is merely one of three candles purchased at a craft fair back in 1983. One of its brothers was given away as a gift to someone years back (undoubtedly to a sworn enemy of the family), and the other was melted at the stake during a wintertime marshmallow roast. Legend has it that if one listened very closely, the agonized screams of tiny plastic squirrels could be heard has they were engulfed by their melting wax tree house. I shudder to think.

DAY 5: Sunday, 6 August

Blogger sucks, so here are the remaining pictures from DAY 4:

Another creepishly large cross looms in the darkness over the Illinois highway

We rejoice in our Best Western find.

DAY 5:

Indiana is full of cows and farms and corn:

Indianapolis isn't very awe-inspiring either:

This is too bad, because the only Indian people I've ever met (hicks, not dots or feathers) are pretty cool. One of them is DWright. The other is the owner of this canoe:

Cheer up, Dan Savage!

He saw me taking this picture of his car at the rest stop, and I felt a little weird about it, so we admitted that we were admiring his sticker. Then he knew we were alright. That didn't stop his creepy ten-year-old son from staring us down, though. I wonder if the man finally had to explain the meaning of the sticker to his son after we left. And I wonder if his explanation included a reason why the sticker is on his canoe and not the family car. I wonder if he had to sleep on the couch that night after little Timmy enlightened Mommy regarding the sorry state of our country's domestic policy and overseas military campaigns over lukewarm oven-baked fish sticks and Jell-O that evening. I wonder if they're now on the path to divorce.

Whatever. Vigorous political discussion and divorce is what this great country of ours is all about.

DAY 4: Saturday, 5 August

We drive into Missouri on Saturday morning. I am not disappointed--it is the total sleaze-fest that I remember. Whereas Oklahoma and Texas highways are lined with billboards promoting abstinence and condemning abortion, Missouri is splattered with giant roadside advertisements for adult 'bookstores'. Here is a sampling: (Note: I did not cheat on this--these are billboards for three separate stores.)






Of course, Missouri isn't all smut. Lest I give the impression that this state is completely tasteless, I've included some pictures promoting other fine Missouri business establishments.




That evening, we stop in St. Louis as planned, having never been to see the gateway to the Midwest. We are far more impressed with the arch than we'd anticipated. It is shiny and awesome and a free blues concert is being held in the park, right on the river.

We wander around and eat bratwurst and crab rangoon from the vendors parked along the park's walkway. After about an hour, we head back to the car, right as a Park Ranger squad car is leaving the concert area. A man is cuffed in the backseat and I hear a faint plop as the cruiser's wheels drop of the curb on its way out of the park. Upon further inspection I find an evidence bag full of the detainee's personal belongings: a cell phone, a handkerchief, two dollars, etc. As there is no sign of illegal substances in the baggie I conclude that he was probably detained for drunkeness and wouldn't mind the return of his personal possessions. I imagine it would suck to be arrested by a bunch of action-hungry Park Rangers in the middle of my good time, only to have them lose all of my shit. So, on our way out of the parking garage I run up to another squad car and hand the driver the bag. He doesn't seem surprised or grateful, but just radios his partner, who is now huffing up the exit ramp, scanning the darkness for the poor bastard's things. I feel exceptionally proud of my good deed--helping out a bumbling backwater policeman right after being ticketed by his brother in arms. Upon further consideration, I wonder if the presence of a cash wad and/or drugs in the bag would have changed my course of action. How much cash and what kind of drugs are we talking about here? What if it were over a grand? And just a few ounces of marijuana? I would totally cut and run, and consider true justice served.

We continue on to Illinois and stop in Terre Haute, Indiana that night at a Best Western. As luck would have it, there is some kind of convention in town here as well, and hotel rooms are in short supply. The enormous balding woman at the front desk offers me a queen-sized suite, the only room left. I pause to weigh the exorbitant price, our chances of finding another room in town, and our level of exhaustion. Just then, an entire family comes stomping into the lobby, led by an angry mother toting a load of pillows and suitcases: "The room you gave us has someone else in it. The door is chained and we can't get in." I book the suite.

DAY 3: Friday, 4 August

"Welcome to New Mexico"

We leave Gallup, New Mexico somewhat on schedule--sometime before noon. Like Arizona the day before, New Mexico appears grumpy and splatters us randomly with light rain throughout our drive.

Land of enchanting storm fronts

We enter Texas sometime that afternoon, determined not to stop at any cost. Last time through we stopped to eat at Logan's Roadhouse, a chain restaurant of reputably reliable mediocrity, only to discover a pick-up parked twenty feet from the entrance with an open trailer full of squealing swine attached to the back. I went back to the car for my video camera, so somewhere we have footage of a dozen piglets screeching as they pummeled each other and tried to escape through the cracks in the trailer's metal gate. I remember ordering salad for lunch that day.

Welcome to Texas

Sadly, Texas is just as exciting as we remember it.

We watch for mileage signs to Groom, Texas, home of the second largest cross in the western hemisphere. We are not disappointed. Several miles out we're able to spot it in the distance, looming damningly on the horizon.

We consider stopping to visit the 190 foot structure and the surrounding cross sculptures but decide against it. A website has warned us not to take our under eight-year-olds to the site due to some graphic anti-abortion propaganda, and we're in no mood for fanaticism. Especially in Texas. Texas is like the Afghanistan of the United States. The people might be friendly, but it's not really a place you want to visit. Not when Iraq is just down the way.

For a while we are distracted with taking pictures of clouds shaped like stuff. Here's an alligator eating a fish:

And a chicken:

We are so obsessed with clouds and getting out of the state that we fail to notice the cruiser parked in the median's grassy ditch. It zooms after us and the trooper informs us that we were going 14 miles over the speed limit. As I've never been in a car while it's been pulled over before, I don't really know what to expect. I'm filled with the irrational fear that my California plates and nervous demeanor will land me in a hail of gunfire and I will bleed to death five miles from the Oklahoma border, groping for my car registration. But instead he just gives us a ticket for $175. Once administration fees are added on, we may well end up paying more in speeding fees than gasoline for the entire trip. Fucking Texas. We drive eagerly, yet cautiously, into Oklahoma. I miss taking a picture of its welcome sign because I'm too busy moping.

It's late so we stop at one of the only open restaurants near Oklahoma City--Chili's. Our waitress cautions us not to speed until we reach the Missouri border, lest we suffer a similar fate to our Texas one. We order a giant girly margarita and check into a nearby Clarion hotel--our third lodging attempt that night. We are informed that we're lucky to find a room in the city at all, what with the rodeo convention in town that weekend. We don't understand what a rodeo convention would be, and how exactly it would differ from an actual rodeo, but we're too tired to ask. We lug our suitcase up to our room and summon enough energy to wallow contentedly on the king-sized bed and watch a re-run of Frasier before passing out.

To my surprise Oklahoma is kind of pleasant, especially at night. Warmly breezy and almost pretty.

But still retarded:

DAY 2: Thursday, 3 August

Auf wiedersehen, Cali-FOR-nia!

The next day we zoom east over the mountains to Arizona, willing my little Honda up the slopes beside lumbering big-rigs, hoping that it won't overheat in the record temperatures and explode along some desolate stretch of highway. Luck is with us--we don't explode.

Hellooo, crippling heat!

To our delight, halfway through the state we are peppered by sporadic rainstorms and surrounded by rainbows. We consider stopping to look for the pot of gold, but decide to move on. Who the hell wants to chase a grumpy leprachaun in 115 degree heat, anyway?

Double rainbow

We stop in some city I can't remember the name of to eat dinner. We pass up Denny's and other mediocre chain restaurants in favor of some local flavor, thinking it might be tastier, or at least somewhat safer, gastrointestinally speaking. This turns out to be a terrible mistake. Rather, ordering items from the menu that the waitstaff doesn't recognize (such as their heavily advertised "Wild for Strawberries" chicken wrap or a simple side of vinaigrette) turns out to be a terrible mistake. An ancient pair of oil and vinegar bottles are brought to the table by a bewildered waitress. The chicken wrap contains no strawberries. We eat without complaining, giggly with hunger. We stop to immortalize the evening in a few pictures before screeching back out onto the highway.

Village Iiiiiiiiiinn!!

We continue on to Gallup where we spend the night in the same Red Roof Inn that we stayed in on our way out to California almost two years ago. Our memory has failed us--this place sucks too. The late night and early morning trucker traffic is almost unbearably loud and the toilet paper is painfully stiff. The single complimentary baggie of shampoo is nearly impossible to open once wet. I use my teeth to tear it open and get most of the shampoo in my mouth. It is nearly as delicious as it smells--like Lysol lemonade. I curse the Red Roof Inn. I curse it.

let's start at the very beginning

Well kids, it's been twelve grueling days of packing, loading, driving 3,000 miles, unloading and unpacking, but we're finally settled on the east coast. Mostly anyway. Sure, we don't have a couch yet, can't find my car registration and only get one TV channel--but that's just all part of the fun of moving, right? Right.

For those of you who have never driven across this sinfully large country of ours, we took lots of crappy pictures through our bug-splattered windshield along the way. This "cream of the crap", if you will, will be featured in the following blog entries, starting with our departure from the Sunshine Universe. Let us begin.

DAY 1 : Wednesday, 2 August
After bidding our last visitors from the east coast goodbye (and cleverly suckering one of them into helping us load our shipping container--thanks, Jimmy!) we frantically clean the apartment, drop off our apartment keys with the landlord and zoom north to Los Angeles to spend one last night with family. Our remaining evening in California is spent eating cake, watching Bravo's Project Runway, and battling the resident feline who, despite our lively protestations, refuses to stop biting our toes and attacking us in our sleep.

Evil kitty

and they're off!

Well, as soon as our last load of laundry finishes. And after we top the tank off. And check the tires and wash the windows. And load some snappy driving tunes onto our mp3 player.

But after that we're totally out of here--later, bitches!

Road Trip Sighting #21: Giant Jesus stick in Groom, Texas