“Where’s the tassel? I’m missing the tassel!”

It doesn’t seem that long ago that I was sitting through my high school graduation, way back in the late spring of, gulp, 1977.  My graduating class numbered all of about 200, as we sat in folding chairs in the middle of the football field that evening in late May or early June.  I can’t remember what month it actually occurred, to tell you the truth.

But to give you an idea of the zeal and academic purity of my youth, I had actively shunned as a high school senior several full athletic scholarships that would have paid my way through at least one top tier institution and multiple other institutions of more questionable standing.  Instead of those full rides offered, I was able to snag a merit award of approximately $100 a semester at the specific big school I wanted to attend.  In the end, I even had to turn that one down, too, as I really only could afford community college right out of the high school gate.

On the positive side in this regard, I can happily report that today, many of my tendons and ligaments are mostly undamaged, and I can walk and run relatively pain-free most days.  I don’t think that would have been the case if I had pursued college athletics.

At least that’s what I tell myself now. . . .

And though I finished very near the top of my high school class in terms of grades, it wasn’t nearly enough to warrant serious attention from anyone remotely associated with an institution known for post-secondary excellence.

So there I sat, rather dismally watching the parade of my peers (though I didn’t consider them as such, really) walk by to receive their full and partial scholarships, while I settled for a now-bruised, haughty idealistic perch that would eventually translate into many minimalistic weekend meals when I eventually made it to my four-year school.  Those Saturdays and Sundays in the future were frequently punctuated by collecting bottles (glass ones; not plastic) around campus to redeem for deposits (food money) as well as by other degrading necessary financial activities I won’t go into here.

It was a life.

But I do take solace in the memory of the speech given by our class valedictorian on that long ago evening.  He was not a bad guy, I suppose, and I never even knew he was the cream of the crop in terms of grades, but his address that evening — wow.  It started off weird and went downhill from there.

One thing I am certain of is that I cannot remember a single thing that he said.  Maybe that’s because what was unique, after all, was not what he said, but how he said it.

At first we all thought he was simply nervous.  He stuttered and rambled and warbled and intoned in the most whacked out of ways.

We sniggered and looked at one another, but as he carried on, it became clear (at least to many of us) that whatever was going on up on the dais was more than simple anxiety.

I mean this dude never sounded like this.  Ever.

Eventually I think most of us there witnessing the spectacle came to the conclusion he was sloshed or high or both, as well as frightened out of his gourd.

These things happen, I supposed, but what did I care?  He was on a full ride somewhere, so screw him I mentally wished him good luck and was thankful it was him up there and not me.

The rest is history.  I know where I wound up (here), but I don’t have a freaking clue where he is now.

I bring all this admittedly ancient history (and histrionics) up because today I had the opportunity to attend the college, not high school, graduation of one of my co-workers.  He has been attending one of those schools that specialize in catering to working adults, and I personally know that this guy has killed himself to complete his studies over the past three years. *

*Note to Daughter:  It is possible to complete your studies.

And as I took my place this afternoon on a hard metal folding chair among many friends and family members in a room that was not exactly an auditorium and a little too hot, the unfolding scene around me was like a bad circus.  The pianist who was providing prelude music played a little too long for the liking of the Dean, who looked over to her multiple times to try to get her to wrap it up, which she eventually did.

The Dean himself was Sikh, I think, as he wore a turban and looked like a Sikh.  He had a teleprompter, which for this occasion, which was akin to bringing a refrigerator on a picnic, instead of a cooler.  And he still stumbled through his (thankfully) brief remarks.

Then the procession of the graduates began, and they were accompanied by recorded music.  I can’t be 100% sure, but I swear it was exactly the same recording that was used at Daughter’s graduation a few years back.  After the students had dutifully filed in, one of the school officials popped up and fiddled with some equipment and the music abruptly halted mid-stream.

Perfect and, yet, appropriate.

As I scanned both the graduates and the audience, I realized it was a very diverse crowd.  In attendance were all shapes, sizes, colors, and clothes.  The only similarity was that everyone was both proud and happy, and they all had iPhones (except for me, of course).

There was a bit of confusion when the diplomas were being handed out, as the founder of the school who had been released from the nursing home for the afternoon actually draped the graduation stoles (google it) over those so honored.  The problem was that, being 95 years old or so, he couldn’t reach up to put the darn things around the students’ necks.  So the graduates had to genuflect (I really wanted to use that word today) directly in front of him so that he could kind of lean over and drop it on them.  Unfortunately, rather than ending up around their necks, the stoles frequently wound up around their mouths, and another faculty official had to jump in with each student and straighten out the entire affair.

It was entertaining, if not a little awkward.

The entire ceremony only lasted about 40 minutes, and then the assemblage adjourned to the adjoining cafeteria for a reception.  I begged off at that point, but not without wishing my colleague congratulations and complimenting him on not wearing his graduation cap like a yamaka.

For a little over an hour, then, I was presented with a reminder of the journey continues for many of us.  The emotions and pride in that room today were real, even if the degrees conferred don’t exactly rank up there with Stanford and the Ivy League.

And it seemed to me the ceremony was more about focus and dedication, rather than the end product itself which in many respects is how it should be.

It was a good lesson and reminder for me that, once again, Hope Springs Eternal, and there are a lot of more important things to worry about than work, money, classic Alfa Romeos, and the NBA playoffs.

Well, maybe not Alfas.

- Dad

So, anyway, today, I tried to run up a hill, into the wind and, well, it wasn’t so successful.

At first, I felt like I was in a Nike commercial. This was my hill, I was going to get over it. I was going to conquer this hill. But then the hill kept going. And going. And then, I made it!!  Over the  first crest from the vantage point of which I could see the many other hills that lay before me. And that’s when my commitment to getting over the hill faltered like a fading star in the night sky. Nah, it was more like an asteroid on a collision course with some other galactic body. CRASH AND BURNNN.

I slowed to a walk and of course, other runners chose that particular time to appear out of nowhere and pass me. They all gave me judgmental looks and I stared right back, defiant. Nope, I didn’t. I just looked at the ground. Dignity in failure is not one of my strong points.

I’m supposed to sign up for a half-marathon soon because clearly, I’m masochistic and want to slowly grind my joints into a fine, chalky powder. I hear once you’re mostly powder, you can’t feel pain anyway!! So, that’s my goal. My “hill,” if you will.

- Daughter

Anyway, during the last four months of college, this particular recipe has been a staple. It became comfort food. What is it, you ask? Kale and shrimp. It doesn’t sound impressive but this recipe is seriously magical. And, the best part of it is that it is impossible to screw up.

Unless you’re me.

I have made this recipe probably one hundred times. There are less than ten ingredients. It takes a maximum of thirty minutes to prepare and make. You’d think I’d have it down pat.

Mais, non.

I was so excited to cook this meal for my family because for once, I knew what I was doing. I confidently sauteed the kale and shrimp. I disregarded the directions a bit because I added more kale than the recipe called for. Ah, well, I should make more sauce to balance it out!! So, I added more vinegar to the sauce. Worst. Decision. Ever.

Immediately, the steam coming up from the pot turned into a noxious gas that made my eyes water. Well, maybe it’s one of those foods that tastes better than it smells! 

Nope, it wasn’t. I put a small sample in my mouth and I might as well have taken a shot of vinegar. Now my mouth was burning in addition to my eyes.

Luckily, my mom came to the rescue and was able to water down the sauce to less terrifyingly-vinegary levels. Nobody died after eating it so I guess I made something edible. Checkmate.

- Daughter

This juice thing is supposed to replace my go-to beverage in the morning: coffee. I made the impulsive decision to stop drinking coffee and today is day 1 of what I foresee to be a very Poor Life Choice(tm). I already got a migraine-like headache from the lack of caffeine and felt distinctly less energetic and jazzed about life. To be honest, my will power is only so-so currently. We’ll see how long this lasts before I break.

After I was thoroughly juiced up and sans-coffee, I started the process of unpacking. It felt like forever as I opened box after box without any visible progress or improvement. I looked at the clock, expecting it to be a few hours later than when I had last checked, but no, it was only THIRTY MINUTES past when I had started. I dramatically laid on the bed with my hand on my head and re-enacted the scene from Gone with the Wind when Scarlett O’Hara says, “I’ll think about that… tomorrow.”

I didn’t realize I had so many clothes until I opened up those nifty vacuum-seal bags they were all stuffed in. Every time I broke open the vacuum seal I wanted to yell out, “RELEASE THE KRAKKEN!” Instead, I sighed as the small bag suddenly expanded with overflowing garments and sheets.

It was kind of like the OPPOSITE of Christmas morning: I didn’t want to open any of these bags or boxes and unleash the hellfire within. But, I persisted and now the unpacking is about halfway done. My room looks less like a storage locker and more like a room where somebody might sleep.

And tomorrow, the unpacking continues. As does my misery.

- Daughter

Day Five:  The Final Frontier.

These have been the Voyages of the Crew Cab Pickup, Frontier.

It’s five-day mission:  To explore strange, new roads; to seek out new family members and their new idiosyncracies; to boldly go where Daughter and I have never gone before . . . .  Whooooosh!!!

That “whoosh” was not the sound of the warp drive engaging.  Rather, it was the Mistral-like trade winds that buffeted us in the face every mile of the way since we left Dallas early Sunday morning.

And today was different, in that the hot, humid Texas heat was replaced by the searing, dry New Mexico and Arizona heat.  Why do people live in such places?  I’ll never know.

All I can say is Thank God for modern air conditioning and cruise control, which meant for us that our daily distance was more a function of our bladders and bleary-eyed fatigue than any sort of truck-dependent mechanical factors.  For the past couple of days, I reminisced to myself about the long-distance drives of my youth, in a Chevy Vega, no less.  You see, I had plenty of time to think to myself, since Daughter was usually good for one solid driving stint per day, with the balance of her other time spent napping, staring at her iPhone, and standing Tarp Watch.

But back to the Days of Yore, it was no air conditioning, no cruise control, no problem.  In my foolish, youthful long-distance driving zeal, I even used to roll up the passenger window during those incredibly hot and long summer journeys, thinking what I lost in perspiration was more than made up by improved aerodynamics.

What a bunch of crap that notion was!  No way, man.  It would have been better to have driven naked with all the windows down compared to what I actually put myself through otherwise.  However, I find those past experiences a useful context to judge how easy it is for me now.  Instead of worrying if I’ll blow an engine or have a flat, I’m more concerned about how far off the Interstate the next Starbucks happens to be.

It’s really sickening, when I think about it, but I will leave the pain and denial in my life to my gardening adventures (that damn clover!), while I prefer my driving to be comfortable and relatively stress free.

Never one to leave well enough alone, though, I induced stress on this latest trip by initiating a series of questions (historical) and transportational (practical) to gauge both Daughter’s general level of awareness and as well as her basic competencies in both areas.  Of course, best of all, it also offered me the chance to impart generational wisdom.

The results were mixed.  On the one hand, Daughter is a very intelligent and sensitive young woman, who has much to offer to the world which, one day, will award her a Pulitzer Prize.  On the other hand, she has a hard time figuring out miles per gallon and doesn’t react very well to the question/phrases, “Well, what would you do if I weren’t here?” and “That’s just an observation; not a criticism.”

In the end, we made it home safely today; we’re still talking to each other, though I don’t understand a lot of what she says; we still enjoy each other’s company (most of the time); and we both have an inherent dislike for Left Lane Bandits and Other Morons of the Open Road (of which there are plenty, and increasing daily, it seems).

Years from now, when my great, great grandchildren ask me about this trip and the most important lesson learned, I will slowly wipe away the spittle from my lower lip, adjust my diaper, and look deeply into the eyes of whichever kid I can focus on and grumble, “Never use yarn to tie down a tarp in a pickup truck bed.  It really sucks and doesn’t work for shi very well.”

Thanks, Daughter.  Now I have something to look forward to!

- Dad

——–

Daughter’s Version of Events: 

We made great time today because Dad fell asleep for a long stretch of the trip and after a quick risk assessment, I took liberties with the speed limit. The speed limit on a two-lane interstate is mostly a guide anyway, n’est-ce pas? As usual, semi-truck drivers and people who must have been in and out of R.E.M. sleep behind the wheel were great dangers on the road. But, to be fair, I’m also a hazard to myself because I get very competitive with semi-trucks who try to pass. They put on that blinker and it signals me to speed up while waggling my finger angrily at the driver. Usually, this is enough to discourage the driver from careening into my lane. It gives me a sick sense of pleasure depriving trucks the ability to cross into my lane in front of me. Maybe this is because I inherited the jerk gene. I hear it gets passed down through the Y chromosome only…

Today, other drivers were not a huge issue. I had bigger problems to worry about, like the giant dust devils that appeared out of nowhere and swept across the road without warning. Dad was asleep when one decided to cross the road right into the truck and I was temporarily thrown around a bit. Luckily, the truck was weighed down my pounds and pounds of my belongings so there was no way I was going anywhere. I was briefly terrified which helped to keep me awake. Maybe I should just watch horror films while I drive. I would be distracted, sure, but I’d be awake!

We also passed a lot of border patrol stops today and my father tested out some new material he must have been working on:

“Okay, Daughter, try not to look too Mexican. Think about being white.”

“PUT DOWN THE BURRITO.”

“Graci- I mean, thank you!!”

When we finally got home (the last hour was torture), I immediately forced my younger sister into indentured servitude and had her carry boxes from the truck. It turns out she is stronger than me. She’s only 11 but she has the bicep strength of an adult Slovakian wrestler.

My room is currently full of unpacked boxes and I am full of the promise of new tomorrows!! No, wait, I’m just full from dinner.

- Daughter

Dante’s Inferno had nothing on us today.

I have seen The Apocalypse, and its name is Southwestern Texas. We awoke this morning to a cool breeze in Dallas, which lulled me into thinking the heat and humidity we drove into yesterday had broken.

Cruelly, that was not the case.

Not only did it turn out to be as miserably hot again today as it was on Saturday, a gale force wind worthy of The Perfect Storm reared its ugly head – in our faces. All day.

It was intimidating.

But let me return to the heat. How hot was it? I noticed several cars driving in the opposite direction (with the wind) with those heat-reflecting shields partially deployed in their windshields.

I imagined the associated conversation thusly:

“Good, God, the sun is burning my eyes through the windshield. Dear, please grab that aluminum foil heat reflector thing and pop it up on your side, would you?”

“Isn’t that going to affect your view? I mean, don’t you need to see out the front of the car?”

“Nah, it’s the passenger side. Not much happens over there and, besides, you’ll warn me if something’s about to explode or run into us.”

Yep. Something like that.

And I’ve never, ever seen people deploy their shield while driving. Parked; of course. Driving? Come on.

I am happy to reveal that I did not witness such behavior on our side of the Interstate but, then again, Daughter’s crap sh belongings pretty much obscured my vision anywhere to the back or side of us.

And the wind. My God, the wind!

Big rigs were weaving all over the place. Dust devils danced through the landscape around us. And occasionally a gust threatened to blow open one of our doors.

Well, not really on that last point, but it sure seemed like it, at times.

Prior to this leg of the journey, my trusty pickup was averaging almost 22 mpg. But today it plummeted to 17.5 mpg. Ladies and Gentlemen, that’s a head wind.

Out in the middle of nowhere, between the garden spots of Odessa and El Paso, there were actually two bicyclists laboring along the shoulder of the Interstate. They were clearly in the middle of some masochistic bike “adventure,” since they were festooned with sleeping bags and panniers. As we sped by them, I estimated they were tootling along at about 1.73 mph, with 24 miles to the next town of any significance. I thought it was illegal to bicycle on an Interstate Highway, so if there are any law enforcement officials reading this post, please note the location of these two cyclists.

Even though it’s been about six hours since we passed them, I figure they are still out there and have maybe managed to cover all of two miles in that time.

I’m telling you it was windy.

There were two essential highlights today. The first involved passing through an immigration checkpoint. When we realized what lay ahead of us on the road, it sparked a flurry of inappropriate comments from me to Daughter, such as:

“Be sure to turn the Spanish language radio station off when we roll the window down.”

“Remember to say ‘thank you’ instead of ‘gracias’ to the Border Patrol officer.”

Things like that.

The second highlight and, perhaps, the Tenth Festivus Miracle of the year was that Daughter was almost bright-eyed and bushy tailed for much of the drive, until she “hit the wall” later in the day and asked me why I wasn’t tired.

(Note to self: When traveling with Daughter, plan on a minimum of three coffee breaks before noon if there is any expectation of consciousness from her after 3:00 p.m.)

And tomorrow? If Allah and the Dust Devils are willing, we should roll up in front of our Home Sweet Home at some point in the afternoon, assuming:

1) We leave the hotel before 9:30 a.m.

2) The Tarpaulin Gods accept our sacrifice of Hampton Inn Shampoo and Conditioner.

3) We don’t get pulled over for an expired State of California license plate.

4) There are enough foo-foo coffee joints between New Mexico and California to keep us both focused and jazzed.

If all those things come true, we have a chance. If not, well, Hope Springs Eternal and Tomorrow is Another Day.

Or is that Tomorrow Never Dies?

I get it confused sometimes if I haven’t had any coffee.

- Dad

———–

Daughter’s Version of Events:

Miles and miles of… nothing.

I got up early for reeealsies today: 7am. Essentially the crack of dawn in my world. But I got up. My dad was probably pleasantly surprised that he didn’t have to drag me out of bed. Oh wait, nevermind. That’s never happened because I am the one always awake first on this road trip.

We made our way to Starbucks in the morning before hitting the road as per usual. I prefer local coffee places but my father has developed a taste for large corporate coffee with no personality. He loves to make fun of me for getting a soy latte which he terms “foo-foo” but I’m not the one who is constantly asking, “So, where’s the nearest Starbucks?” He is an addict.

I don’t love the coffee there but it’s drinkable and sometimes delicious if I use the powers of my imaaaagination. I like to call it Starbutts because it’s just immature enough to annoy my father. I don’t think I’ve actually said it out loud to him and to be honest, he probably wouldn’t notice if I did because he can’t hear most of the things I say.

Anyway, today I may or may not have angered the barista at Starbutts by asking if my drink was coming because it took longer than usual. I mentally berated myself because I was being the customer I always hated when I was working there. Sorry, hapless barista! I was just grumpy because the sun was waaaaay too close to the horizon for my liking.

After successfully acquiring coffee (I pray it was free of spit), we got back on the road and I fell asleep almost immediately. But then my turn behind the wheel came all too soon. It was incredibly windy so my usual multi-tasking was a no-no. I put my DJing, Starbucks-finding, and e-mail-checking to the side in order to keep the truck from blowing off the road. My Dad doesn’t know how to use my iPhone so I had to find Starbucks on my phone only at stoplights or slower portions of the road. Safety first!!!

Speaking of safety, my dad has avoided sleeping when I’ve driven the past four days because he doesn’t trust me or something. However, I happen to be a fantastic driver. I am the Danica Patrick of this road trip. And my dad is… he’s like the Ricky Bobby.

Well, anyway, today he stole my FaceTent(tm) and actually slept. Because of this, I had to rely on myself for two hours’ of entertainment. I sang songs with questionable content and  used the opportunity of him sleeping to push the speed limit a bit. Not a lot but enough to feel like I was James Bond or something. Going three miles over the speed limit is definitely equivalent to how James Bond feels.

Dad, stealing my idea.

As the day wore on, I got more and more tired. My eyes started to dry up and when I went to rub them, I accidentally got sunscreen in them. So, they ended up being dry and also burned with the intensity of one thousand suns (ironic considering it was, you know, sunscreen that caused this). I decided the best way to resolve my temporary blindness was to pour bottled water directly into my eyes while in the car. Surprisingly, it sort of worked and I was able to both see and blink without excruciating pain – success!!!

Not that there was much to see…

Tomorrow is hopefully the last day of driving. 9 or 10 hours of driving left! My dad is already asking if there’s a Starbutts around here.

- Daughter

Fab Fam Time in Dallas today — the southernmost tip of the Great Plains, which has been converted into an endless landscape of concrete, heat, humidity, and cookie cutter McMansions.  We declared a Unilateral Pajama Day, which seemed relevant, since I have been beset by restless slumber since the onset of the trip, and it really would be more appropriate for me to wear bed clothes since I’m half asleep most of the time.

The first attack of the Sleepless Nights occurred at Daughter’s apartment before we left.  In her admirable zeal to pack and be ready to rock and roll down the road, Daughter’s remaining unpacked bed linen was seemingly sourced from a local Salvation Army Drop Box.  That is to say, the pillow case on which I rested was made of near-burlap, and the covers had seen better days in the 1950s, from whence they came.

Subliminally or no, they put me in a restless stupor, which led to a funk, which led to an almost sleepless night — broken only by short naps where I dreamed I was in a concentration camp.

Fast forward to the wonderful abode of my lovely Spouse’s Sister, where we parked last night.  We all love spending time together, but there are hidden secrets which lurk throughout her picture perfect home.  For my part, I was looking forward to a quiet night catching up on some zzzz’s so that I could face the balance of the journey relatively refreshed and in sound state of mind.

Unfortunately, my attempts at slumber were interrupted on a continual basis after the lights went out.  The culprits?  A family of squirrels that was busy setting up a wi-fi transponder in the walls of my bedroom.  They were running cables and wires for most of the night, and I swear they took a smoke break around 3:00 a.m.

Clearly they were Union Squirrels.

Still, we all had a great time together there, when not bothered by rodents (Are squirrels rodents?), while Daughter napped and ate and napped.  For me, I managed to play some golf with Granddad  – well, he really played, while I rode in the cart, hit some balls, and gave the appearance of playing.  I did find four golf balls during the round, however, so I consider it a success.

We ended the day at Family Stop Number Two — my Bro’s house — with a Texas-size cookout and a house full of people I didn’t know, but who smiled a lot and reminded me, again, how dismal and sarcastic I really am.

We have truly been treated like royalty by our family here.  Well, the kind of faux-royalty present in some minor dukedoms and municipalities, but royalty nonetheless, and we are very appreciative and thankful.

Almost thankful enough to extend our stay, but, no.  We must attend and depart for our own Home.

So, kind of refreshed and somewhat rested (not really), we have committed to an early start in the morning on Sunday, and we are going to try to make San Diego in two days’ time, Allah Willing and if foo-foo coffee is available.

Time will tell if we can manage to stay on schedule, but the road beckons.  And don’t forget the Tarp Zombie Wars.  Sis-in-Law made a major Bungie Cord Investment, and we will put the new apparatus to the test in Southwestern Texas.

Yee-haw!  I have high hopes!

- Dad

————

Daughter’s Version of the Events: 

It felt good to stay off the roads today again for the sake of spending time with family. Well, I actually don’t know what I spent more time with today, my family or my pillow. I slept a lot. That reminds me, I should really look into Narcoleptics Anonymous. But then again, maybe not. I should probably just use that time to sleep some more.

Not the car.

What I realized seeing my cousins and other family today is that I’m really, really white compared to everyone else. (But also that I love my family! Of course.) You would never know that I’m second generation Persian. I look like any standard-issue European something-or-other. Spending all of winter inside because of East Coast Weather didn’t help matters; I have turned mostly transparent. It would be funny except I have realized the make-up powder brand I use does not make a “snow” color so I have had to make do. I now just rub flour into my face and call it a day. (And if I add a little yeast: PRESTO, bread.(?) I am not a baker, I don’t know.)

Also not the car.

Anyway, I woke up today at ten and then lazed around. I made some toast and “researched” classes for next fall. Looks like I’m going to be taking art classes! I guess my school is only going to give me my degree after I complete the college requirement of finger painting. Only then am I educated.

After such hard work, I was naturally tired. So I napped to rest up before we took a thirty minute trip down to Southlake, TX. (I didn’t drive, but believe me, navigating for my father is an energy-expending task.)

We left in the evening and  as much as I wanted to withhold information while I navigated the roads, I knew that would be disastrous for both of us. (When I say ‘navigating’ you should know that I mean ‘reading MapQuest directions’). You would think that printing out directions instead of relying on my undependable phone and blindly following the print map would help cut down on arguing but we found a way to work in a disagreement nonetheless:

“YES DAD, STAY ON THIS ROAD”

“YES, THIS ONE”

“NO, NOT THAT ONE.”

“THAT ONE WE PASSED BACK THERE WAS ACTUALLY THE TURN.”

I was smug about being right about directions. Until we missed a turn. Even so, we got to my aunt and uncle’s house and I got to catch up with family I hadn’t seen and some family I hadn’t even met. The most entertaining family member is probably my aunt who is very Southern; the South seeps into just about everything she says*:

“Bless her heart, she is never going to find a man with that hair.”

“Butter my butt and call me a biscuit!”

“Y’all, it’s time for a hoedown! Grab the pitchforks and dancing partners!”

- Daughter

* My aunt didn’t actually say any of these things. I just like to think she did.

How being in the car makes me feel.

This morning, I got up before my Dad who seems to have absorbed the Southern pace of living: slow as molasses. Slower than Paula Deen trying to finish a marathon. Slower than a Southerner “driving.” Slower than a Southerner saying anything. I’m technically originally from the South so I’m allowed to make fun of it. When you are born in a Southern state, you get a set of rules along with your birth certificate that grants you permission to make fun of the South. And then, the barn hands hospital workers hand you a stick of butter and you deep fry the stork that brought you into the world.

But I digress.

Today, we left Little Rock, Arkansas behind. Of course, the trip started with trouble. The tarp covering all of my belongings was flapping around like an angry goose so we had to stop and adjust. The first time, I insisted that my Dad tie the tarp down tighter but he said, “No, let’s just go.” Well, lo and behold, not more than thirty seconds later on the interstate we were on the verge of losing the tarp again. Part of the problem is that the string my dad picked up is approximately the same thickness as dental floss. It turns out that dental floss is a less than perfect tie-down material.

My dad added another string, screwed around with the tarp, and then decided that his efforts were good enough. I was not convinced and took matters into my own hands, tying knots to secure more things as my dad sat inside the cab, leisurely sipping coffee.

After a shorter length of driving (5 hours) we made it to my aunt’s house in Texas. However, my father tested my patience by withholding navigational information purely to irritate me. I think he thinks he is somehow preparing me for the “real world” by refusing to communicate directions.

Me: “Did we miss the turn?”

Dad: “I don’t know, what would you do if I weren’t here?”

Me: “Well, that isn’t the case, so did we?”

Dad: “Yeah, and now we have to turn around.”

Me: “What? Are you serious?”

Dad: “No, you’re fine. The turn is not for a while.”

Despite the arguments about directions, we got to Texas in one piece. How I leave Texas, however, is another matter.

I went Razor scootering with my cousin who enjoyed the fact that he could bike a million times faster than I could scooter. Unfortunately, I did not wear shoes and when I went careening downhill and applied the brakes with my foot, the metal immediately heated to a molten lava level temperature and burned my foot. And then, after I realized I would be unable to use the brakes with my bare feet, I settled for using my foot to periodically hit the ground while I rolled downhill. So then I got road burn in addition to a metal-induced burn.

My grandparents came to join us for a home-cooked dinner of Chipotle and we spent time catching up while shoveling vaguely Mexican food into our gaping maws. My grandmother’s first words to me were, “Oh, you’ve gained weight!” Ah, yes. Grandparents.

After dinner, I played badminton with my grandpa and cousin until I messed up one too many times and sat myself down. At which point, my dad picked up a dead snake and chased me around with it while I screamed. Naturally.

Can’t choose your family.

- Daughter

Ah, Day Two — the day everything becomes clearer; the day when the meaning of the Road Trip we call Life is revealed; the day when. . . .  Nope.  I was going for a vibe there and it just wasn’t happening.

Cut me some slack, please.  I’m cooped up in a pickup truck for 10-12 hours with Daughter, but the insight we provide each other is priceless!

For instance, we made a commitment last night to wake up bright and early and get on the road before everyone else.  You might have guessed what actually happened.  We hit the Interstate at the crack of dawn about 9:30 a.m. again.

See a pattern here?

And horror of all horrors, the closest Starbucks was eight miles back to the east from whence we came yesterday.  For foo-foo coffee, we’ll divert, we’ll get lost, we’ll sidetrack five miles out of the way (on occasion), but we never, ever go backwards.

That would go against the Prime Directive.

So, I we made a Command Decision and took off without our standard boost of high-octane caffeine and soy peppermint non-fat, non-dairy, non-human crapolatte.  Which, of course, meant that Daughter could immediately embark on her first nap of the day — at 10:00 a.m., no less.

I suppose it’s the Road Trip version of Pajama Day — an art perfected by the females in my house.

To recap, on our first day we managed to drive from Philadelphia to Bristol, Tennessee.  Right around six hundred miles.  Today our goal was Memphis, and depending on the Tarpaulin, Caffeine, and Latte Gods, perhaps even Little Rock.

Making Little Rock would almost, almost be like a Moon Shot for us.  So in the spirit of the moment, and to make the miles pass a little quicker, I began to sing random songs (not hits) that I find curiously enjoyable and which Daughter finds endlessly annoying.

In short order, she turned on the radio, and when we entered the blank coverage zone in the mountains, she turned up her iPhone.

I love Quality Family Time!

My feelings are not that badly affected by any of this, because I have heard myself sing.  But, still, it’s a little hurtful Daughter chose not to join in to a rousing chorus of whatever New Christy Minstrels (google them; they are still around) tune I was chopping.

When we finally did manage to find that first magical coffee break and switch roles (Me – Passenger; She – Driver), the next phase of the day’s drive began:  Dad, Keep Me Entertained While I’m Behind the Wheel by Asking Me History Questions.

I will not recount Daughter’s performance during said quiz.  Let’s just say that being “one or two years off” or “being in the right century” would not pass muster for most Jeopardy contestants.

Of course, I only asked questions from subjects I either knew fairly well or could fake knowledge of even better, but some of the responses I received from Daughter made me question our investment in her prestigious Lesbian Cult College over the past few years.

Maybe she didn’t take any History classes.  I don’t know.

But to be completely fair in this regard, let me offer a personal, revealing example of ineptitude from my own place of employment, where I find channeling Michael Scott from The Office to be an especially effective method of figuring out what’s going on with our financial performance.

When reviewing our revenue numbers, it is not uncommon for me to say to our Accountant Muggles, “Imagine you are explaining this to a fifth grader.”  And when that doesn’t work and I still don’t understand, it becomes, “Imagine you are explaining this to a third grader.”

If I don’t get it by then, we all agree to simply move on.

Maybe some of this stuff runs in the family.  I hope not.

Anyway, after Daughter’s less than stellar performance today, I have decided to scrounge up an elementary school history book from somewhere and give it to her for her birthday this year (instead of an iPad).

That should teach her!

And what of our favorite tarp and the resident zombies beneath?

I am happy to say that we nearly got it right today.  That is to say, we did not need to make any unplanned readjustment stops.  We figured out that if we sorta tucked everything in and kinda piled a bunch of junk on top, it only fluttered mildly and acted like a jib instead of one of those billowing big sails that I can’t remember the name of.

Now whether the stupid thing provides any sort of weather protection for the crap junk belongings in bed is another matter altogether.  I suspect not.

And the tarp was put to the test late this afternoon as we powered through a mild rain shower.  Our suitcases came out a little wet, but we didn’t really check anything else out back there.

After all, how much mold can form over the next four or five days?

We did have two significant accomplishments that I must report.

First, we learned a valuable lesson five months ago during our trip east, when we encountered an incredibly messy section of I-40 that is under construction between Memphis and Little Rock.  Duly prepared and remembering that nightmare, we detoured early and took a State Road that paralleled the Interstate and avoided the worst construction delays.

Taking the two-lane back road was something of a revelation for Daughter who, I take it, is really only familiar with Superhighways and suburban thoroughfares.

“What’s the speed limit here?”

“It’s forty, but be careful when going through town because it drops to twenty-five,” I replied.

“This is a town?  It’s so depressing.  Oh, wait, there’s a Taxidermist Shop.  That’s cool.”

I guess it was a little educational, but not much.

And our second accomplishment?  Daughter Yelped a gluten-free eatery for supper tonight, and it turned out to be both crowded and hip.  The food was really good, but we went home disappointed because the wait for the pizza was forty five minutes.  We settled for Za Za salad and dairy free ice cream.

Did I mention it was expensive?

Finally, I am happy to report that we did, in fact, arrive in Little Rock this evening, which means we have a much shorter day tomorrow, terminating with family in Dallas.

I also have to report that I will be the only Blog Writing Muggle today, as Daughter is busy finishing her final essay for the semester — due tomorrow.  I think she said it is about Buddhism, but at the time she was describing it I was singing pretty loudly and couldn’t quite make out what she was saying.

Namaste.

- Dad

Let me start by saying that, though late to pick me up at the airport yesterday and forcing me to contort to a space in the truck’s passenger seat better suited to a Capuchin Monkey, Daughter did an exemplary job of preparing for the trip home.  She had already packed 97% of her stuff and had actually loaded most of it in the bed already – with the exception that she allowed for exactly three inches of leg room for both the front seats, she done good.

However, because of said space restrictions, a quick reallocation of physical assets was called for.  The criterion was simple:  If Daughter could afford to lose whatever item or box we were considering, it went back into the bed.  After all, for someone to steal some of the junk we’re hauling home, they clearly must be one step away from impending homelessness.

And, Presto!  We suddenly had room to stretch.

The Next Big Idea concerned the weather forecast and protecting her crap junk belongings in the back from the elements.

“We need one of those covering things,” said Daughter.

“A tarp.  It’s called a tarp.”

“But it’s 10:00 p.m.  What’s open at his hour?”*

(*Not the verbatim dialogue, but pretty close to it.)

Target, of course.

I’ll spare you the details of finding the Target, finding the tarp, and finding rope/twine/string – “We don’t sell no string anymore at Target, sir.”

But we did manage to source everything, and after a mostly sleepless night, we started out tired and fatigued this morning at the crack of dawn about 9:30 a.m.

We managed all of five minutes down the Interstate before making our first stop to adjust and secure the tarp.

Sufficiently satisfied, we began again and racked up another ten minutes before pulling over again to screw around with reconfigure the tarp.

Clearly, we are better suited to interpreting spurious GPS displays than we are tying down anything.  After all, I was given a choice between sports and Cub Scouts, and because I chose the former, I’m still paying the price in the “Life Skills Department, subtitle, Tying Knots.”

Our dilemma called for some real innovative thinking.  I decided to put my suitcase on top of the tarp and tie it down instead.  The only risk was that if anything went wrong, instead of losing a five dollar tarp, I would lose all my most valuable possessions in the bag.

“Dad.  Isn’t your suitcase going to fly off the back?”

“Nope.  And if it does, then the Universe needed it more than me.”

Whatever, it worked.

We wound up travelling nearly six hundred miles today, and I witnessed Daughter taking only one fitful nap.

I call that a success.

As an aside, many years ago when we first moved to Southern California, I asked a colleague at work about his experiences with the State’s law enforcement personnel on our local freeways.  He compared the likelihood of being pulled over akin to being that one unlucky wildebeest in a herd of thousands, singled out and dragged down by a constabulary pride of lions.

I took that story as a license to be prudent, diligent, and speedy, when safe to do so.  My last conversation with a policeman was sometime in the 1990s, and did not result in a ticket, so I guess the strategy worked.

I am happy to report that on the first day of our Father-Daughter (or is it Daughter-Father?) return journey to the Best Coast, we were not targeted by the pride.  However, I experienced a smidgen of Schadenfreude when I witnessed an older couple in a Cadillac SUV (New York plates) talking to the Virginia State Police on two separate occasions not more than twenty minutes apart.

I would think they would have gotten the message the first time.

As for us, when you’re rocking down the Interstate on cruise control, with a zombie-like passenger who looks ready to pass out at any moment throughout the day, while constantly focused on a petulant tarp out back that is billowing so much you think there were zombies underneath trying to escape, exceeding the speed limit doesn’t even enter into the equation — finding the next foo-foo coffee place does, but we don’t need to speed to get there.

- Dad

—————

Daughter’s Version of the Events:

Well, I woke up at 7am like my dad demanded only to twiddle my thumbs for an hour while I waited for him to wake up. Eventually, I had to wake him up and he immediately said he didn’t sleep and that’s why he didn’t wake up at 7. Ah, well, neither did I. I guess I’m just, you know, DEDICATED and RESPONSIBLE.

Anyway, after briefly stuffing last minute items into the truck bed, I drove my dad to my favorite coffee shop one last time. He complained about the price, of course. (Am I surprised? No. This is somebody who brags about finding pennies like they’re buried treasure and he is Long John Silver.) I found it ironic that he complained about the prices considering he is a very regular patron of a small, independently-owned coffee shop. You may have heard of it… Starbucks. However, he didn’t see things my way and continued to grumble about the high price of the coffee. I helpfully reminded him that he could not put a price on my happiness.

What do all these shapes and lines mean??

After that brief breakfast, we hit the road. The GPS died despite numerous attempts at revival. CPR just wasn’t enough to save our TomTom. One less navigational tool is honestly probably better for us, anyway. Now, with the GPS out of the picture (R.I.P.), there are less contradicting directions. This is the sort of thing that happens when we have too many navigational tools:

Dad: “What highway should we take?”

Me: “Well, the GPS says to take the 83. The AAA map says to take the 77. My phone GPS says that this road doesn’t exist.”

Of course, our trip had a snafu or four. We had to pull over multiple times because the tarp covering the mountain of belongings in the truck bed kept flying up like a magnificent sail. Well, it’d be more magnificent if it wasn’t in danger of flying off and then landing on someone’s windshield and causing a fiery crash worthy of a Michael Bay film.

Sidenote/humanity-affirming moment of the day: because we were in the South, a guy stopped on the freeway when we were struggling with the tarp and in his deep Southern drawl, asked if we needed help. I forget that people care about other people in some places!! I’ve been in Philly too long, clearly.

Anyway, my dad and I took turns driving today but Dad ended up taking on the bulk of the driving because my eyes were drying up into raisins. I tried to bring back FaceTent ™ but without a heavy black coat to mask out the sun, it was futile. Other materials let in sunlight and therefore, blind you even with your eyes closed.

All in all, it was a successful day. Well, besides the barista putting a boy’s name on my Starbucks cup instead of my actual girl name. And my dad yelling at me to find a Starbucks faster on my phone that had no signal. And when my dad yelled at me for not being able to see a semi I almost merged into. And when my dad told me I was driving too fast. And when my dad told me that I am now in charge of making sure my sister is an upstanding citizen. (HEAR THAT, SIS? I know you read it, little one.) But yeah, besides all that, it was a good day.

Nope, that’s not my name.

Who are you trying to convince, Bristol, TN?

I bet you didn’t know there were castles in Tennessee.

- Daughter