July 31, 2010

Thank You, Wes Craven. You Saved My Life. (a.k.a. Roadtrip Through The Ozarks, Part 2)

Just so you know, I am yet again writing from a weird place. First off: I am still not home. Second: I am writing on a laptop which is about as comfortable for me as a make-out session with John Denver, living or dead. Third: I am in a basement, which is something that doesn’t even exist in Houston, for reasons that I don’t really understand although I think it has something to do with, like, mud and water tables, which are not the kind of tables you eat on but the kind with lines and numbers and things like that, and mole people and secret underground mole people societies and their rules about regular above ground people invading their turf. I don’t really listen 100% when Steve tries to explain it to me, but I’m pretty sure that I am at least partly right.

Anyway, I am uncomfortable again and having a hard time getting focused to write. For me, writing is kinda like peeing. I know that there is a percentage of people who pee in showers and pools and other places that one should really not be peeing, but I am not, nor have I ever been, one of those people. To pee, I need to be in the perfect pee position, which is a sitting one. Stand and pee? No. Float around in water and pee IN IT? Super no. Even if I wanted to, my body would never let me. Sitting position. Alone. The end. I am like that with writing. I need to be at my desk, with my computer, in my own house, or it is like trying to pee in the shower. On this trip I am forcing myself to write, but as I’m sure you have noticed, this is only the 2nd blog of the trip, so it is not going very well. But because I love you guys, I am trying my best.

So, to continue with our road-trip story…by the end of day one of our trip to Missouri, we were tired, hungry, and pretty much done. By the time we got to the hotel it was nearly 10:00 PM and we crashed pretty hard, getting some good rest to prepare us for day two. The next morning, when it was Steph’s turn in the shower, Ethan decided he needed to pee like he’s never peed before. He was losing his mind: rolling around on the floor, whimpering, just generally freaking out. I thought he was exaggerating until he curled into the fetal position, got really quiet, and his eyes started to roll back in his head as he just whispered the word “Pee” over and over. Since Steph was, as we later learned, “Deep Conditioning,” and was not in a position to let us in, I grabbed the ice bucket and told Ethan to let loose. Not only did he feel a million times better, but he was super-excited to tell everyone all about it. I know what you’re all thinking: that we are disgusting people and you will never use a hotel ice bucket ever again. Yes, we are disgusting, but sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do. And no, you should never, ever use a hotel ice bucket for your ice. EVER. Just a few months ago at Disney, the ice bucket was our magical barf collector. It happens, people. And I know I am not alone.

Once Ethan’s bladder was empty, Stephanie’s hair thoroughly conditioned, and Ethan given a talk about how emergency peeing rules can differ from normal everyday peeing rules, we were on our merry way. Day two was to only be a five hour day, which after our GPS day from hell, was very exciting. We once again used the GPS, but this time I tricked her into going the way I wanted her to go. It was a three step process but one that was necessary for our survival.

The route we chose was one of winding back roads, freakishly tiny towns, and a very Deliverancey type of people. My GPS and ex-BFF stuck to the plan for once, but kept annoying me by telling me to “Bear right” or “Bear left” when all that was really required of me was to move my hand maybe 1/4 of an inch in either direction. When someone says “Bear” up, down, sideways, whatever, I am preparing for a turn of such sheer force that I nearly pull my arms out of their sockets and can barely stay on the road. I am definitely not thinking a delicate 1/4 inch move of the hand. For the love of God, when I was in the midst of childbirth, i.e., when I was pushing a 7 lb. 13 oz. HUMAN BEING out of my body, the Dr. told me to “Bear Down.” While I wish that he had only intended me to ever so delicately move my hoo-ha 1/4 of an inch in order to complete that whole birthing business, what he really meant was that I should use such force that I not only almost push my kidneys out of my own body, but my eyeballs as well. My Dr. says that is what “Bear” means, and since he, you know, extracts humans from other humans and is a human himself, one with lots of degrees on his walls, then I choose to believe him over a bitchy bodiless voice from my car stereo. I don’t know why.

Overall the day went well, save for one incident. After passing many road side fruit stands we finally decided to stop at one and see what they had. After buying some jelly from the old woman inside, and having her pretty much insinuate that she thought I was the mother of not only Ethan (9) but of Stephanie as well (38), she made small talk and asked us where we were headed. When we told her, she thought that our route was all wrong, and tried, quite hard actually, to convince us to go another, very confusing route. She pushed this “better/faster” route so hard and we could not get her to give up, so we eventually just said “okay,” then jumped in the car and followed our original plan. Stephanie and I are 100% convinced that she was trying to have us either kilt (the hillbilly word for killed) or married off to her cousins Skeeter Bub Dohicky and Jethro Leroy Boondock. Being horror movie fans can save your life, people. We have both seen enough “Hills Have Eyes” type movies that we know the drill. This kindly old lady i.e. detourer to death and/or betrothal to inbreds, was supposed to send us on a right purty drive, instead of our long, boring, safe drive. If we had not grown up filling our brains with rated “R” horror movies behind our parents’ backs, we would have listened to her and ended up -mark my words- on a one lane dirt road that dead-ended in a cavern of hillbillies that were waiting to pounce on our adorable, stupid asses. Ethan would have been sold into some kind of child labor ring where he would have to make moonshine, skin squirrels or something, and we would have had our hair cut off, been outfitted in overalls made from animal skin, been forced to go barefoot and been re-named  Darlene Dohicky and Clementine Boondock.

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