Schlepping and Talking

I just finished schelpping from Chicago to California. Yep, I'm a cross country schlepper. I put on my rattiest comfy clothes, pulled my hair in a ponytail knowing with each day on the road my hair would get as ratty as my clothes and dragged my biggest suitcase filled to bursting out to the car. Uh oh the dog had my black bra in his mouth , it fell out the side of the bag. I hate the laborious drive West but my yellow Lab Elliot aka "Beefy Boy" hates it more. He watched me stuff his dog bed into the back seat and knew his fate for the next 72 hours had been sealed. "Sorry little buddy but we're in this together." I wish he knew how to drive or talk. He glared at me for a few seconds and then heaved his body onto the seat. I climbed behind the wheel and tried not to burst into tears - only 1900 miles to go.

The first 100 miles were a test of my will as I longed to turn back, call a cab and head for the airport. Invasive security checks or not it's a lot quicker than three days of endless interstate. Day one was driving hell. I stared and stared at the map praying I was getting closer but had only gained 50 miles. Staring only made me anxious and long for a martini. After I stopped hyperventilating realizing I wasn't even out of Illinois I started to wonder if I could talk on the phone the entire drive. I love the phone and my little black Samsung was filled with all my friend's numbers. It could take me three days to get from A to Z. I actually know a "Z" person. I could go alphabetically through my entire address book and stop crying. Yes! I would gab my way to California - it felt so right.

My Mother facilitated my goal of talking my way West by calling every two hours. "No Mom, I'm not tired. Yes, the dog is fine. I'm in Missouri. The weather? It's cloudy. Gotta go I'm still in the "A's." I looked longingly at the "Flip" video camera I had bought to chronicle my trip but realized being on the phone could bring me happiness. The only image I wish I had on film was the cash register girl in a small gas station/general store between Flagstaff and Phoenix Az who was wearing a holster with a small pistol. The sign on the door read "all employees are armed." Scary but I'm fast at the gas pump.

I would like to thank Emily, Don, Terry, Dennis, Jim, Neil, Bernie, and David for picking up when they knew it was me yet again as well everyone else who listened to me blab about nothing. Miraculously I achieved my goal of talking my way to California. I wonder if that gets my picture on a Wheaties box? Be grateful I didn't have your phone number.