Not a learner-of-lessons, I still think I'll be okay if I drink a cup of coffee now and then. It looks so easy when other people do it, so why can't I? I'm the same person who will wear the same pair of jeans for a few days in a row, and when they get all stretched-out and loose, I think that I have suddenly and inexplicably lost weight.

April 14, 2005

Whenever someone offers me coffee in front of my mom she will literally throw herself in front of my body and scream "NO!" She says coffee makes me act like Rainman, and will quickly share the story of her "Terror-filled ride over the Grapevine with Candie and half a No-Doze."

On the way to Chicago a couple of weeks ago Dearinger and I drove straight through the first night, staying awake on hot cups o' Joe we picked up at gas stations and various incarnations of the Waffle House.

We were somewhere around Amarillo on the edge of the desert when the caffeine started to take hold. I wasn't driving, thankfully, as the Brawny man appeared in front of me, telling me that he decided to start making Brawny toilet paper. Brawny toilet paper! The idea was tantalizingly funny to my stimulant-addled, sleep-deprived mind. It's rough, it's tough, and it takes shit from no one.

I started laughing. Small giggles at first, as I didn't want to explain to Dearinger why I was laughing when we had hardly spoken since Tucemcari. My amusement seemed to incite the Brawny man so he fashioned himself some underwear out of paper towels and put them on over his jeans. That's where the dam burst. I was hysterical, hyperventilating more than laughing really, and I knew if it hadn't been dark the glow of my red face would have alarmed my road partner.

Dearinger was alarmed however, swerving back and forth as she was watching me, trying to grasp what sort of sound I was making.

She asked me if I was alright but I couldn't speak. The Brawny man was now dancing on the dashboard but I couldn't pay attention to him. I was dying. I could feel the artery in my brain getting ready to explode as I shook and gasped for air. Calming myself was now a matter of life and death. I cupped my hand over my mouth and tried to hold my breath. Slowly, slowly I was able to still my rabid lungs, shutting my eyes against the Brawny man's suggestive jig.

The adrenaline rush from nearly having a Brawny-hallucination-induced-stroke kept me awake for several more hours. I brushed my teeth in a gas station before visiting my relatives in Ft. Gibson, Oklahoma. After 22 years, that was one hell of a way to greet my old home. I'm sure my filmy skin and Manic-Panic hair dyed to match my bloodshot eyes confirmed to my dad's older sister that "Larry's girl just aint right." But at least my breath was minty fresh.

The Chinese buffet somewhere in the outback of Oklahoma was desolate, and there was a dead animal of unknown species ripening in the parking lot. I didn't care because they offered all the cherry cobbler I could eat! I don't care what anyone says, cherry cobbler makes an excellent side dish to lukewarm crab rangoon.

We finally stopped and slept at the Comfort Inn outside Lebanon, Illinois. I don't remember too much of that part of the trip, but the next day I made a stand. I must see the Cahokia mounds, I pleaded to Dearinger, who was anxious to get to Chicago to see her boyfriend. We didn't have time to see the mounds on the last trip, but now that I've read Native Americans Before 1492 I have to go to those mounds or I'm going to die. She finally gave in after I reminded her that it was my lead foot and sensitivity to stimulants that got us to St. Louis in under 30 hours, but I was really pushing it when I wanted to stop to take pictures of Lincolns home. Which, by the way, was lovely.

By the time we got to Chicago, Dearinger had had quite enough of me and my side trips. Chicago is another story.