opazazzyzenClumsy and Comical

Day two of my trip across the country and my mom and I already stopped at our first tourist destination: Wall Drug Pharmacy, a unique, yet tacky, store. The store was built during the Great Depression but came to know success by offering a free glass of cold water. (Take note, your business only needs to offer free tap water to be successful.)

Since then the store has expanded to look like ten stores (all filled with tourist “junk”) and has collected various items for people to take pictures with. For example, nothing drew me in more than the giant T-Rex. Rex and I took a few pictures together before I headed to the giant hare and climbed up on his back.

My mom and I claimed our free cup of water and then jumped back in the car; nothing was bought…

Our next destination was Mount Rushmore! As we drove up to the monument I was thinking, “Wow, nothing like seeing four, dead presidents’ faces in a rock.”

The whole Mount Rushmore experience was a bit too patriotic for me. I love America, don’t get me wrong, but I never get teary eyed when a park ranger has 250 people stand up and recite the pledge of allegiance. I probably feel awkward because I fear I have to relive my cheerleading days. To this day, it haunts me to have to chant, clap, hit high-Vs and beam with pride alongside 20 other cheerleaders. 250 Americans are no different.

My mom and I “suffered” through the 30-minute patriotic presentation and recognitions because at 8:30 there was going to be a light show! A light show people!

The presentation ended with the ranger calling up all of the past veterans and recognizing each one. Mount Rushmore was then lit up and my mom and I prepared ourselves for the amazing and entertaining light show.

However people started getting up and leaving. My mom and I stared at each other thinking, “What about the light show? We waited for the light show. Was that single, light up of Mount Rushmore the light show?”

It was.

We left and cried all the way to our hotel.

After dreading all summer how I was going to fit all of my belongings in my car, I finally had to buckle down and just do it. I am happy to report that most of my favorite things have made it on my cross-country trip to San Francisco! My car may look ridiculous but I can now add “champion car packer” on my resume.

After a restless night sleep, I rolled out of bed at 6 a.m. on Saturday with that Christmas morning feeling (a little antsy, anxious and tired, but very much excited for my San Francisco treat- ha ha get it?).

I had a tearful goodbye with my dad and dog, Dugan; (mostly Dugan though because he has failed to study his Rosetta Stone and learn English. Now how are we supposed to communicate 2000 miles away?)

My mom and I ended up driving 9 hours today to land us in Des Moines, Iowa! It was a good drive. We filled our heads with a book on CD and watched the country scenery roll past. Once in a while my mom would turn the CD off and claim she’d had enough and needed to hear a “real person speak.” I then had to entertain her.

The best tip I can give, so far, about driving cross-country is to bring Jelly Bellies. Do it. Drive however many miles you need to find a self-serving, Jelly Belly stand and fill up. They are like little sugar, energy shots of deliciousness.

Once my mom and I arrived at our Hampton Inn we did victory dances. (Yes, I purposely was specific about the hotel chain only to encourage you to stay at one. You will melt into their bed and feel bliss wash over you. Oh, and they make fresh cookies everyday. Once the cookies run out though I swear they pump in a cookie smell into the entire hotel.)

The first thing we brought up to our room was my bike. I couldn’t leave it hanging out on the back of my car; someone might steal it! So we wheeled the thing into the elevator and were met with some interesting stares from a woman (who seems to pop up several other times).

On our next trip up to our room we were loaded with our overnight bags, cooler, dry food bag and other various items. Again we bring everything into the elevator and again we happen to run into the same woman. This time she speaks.

“Are you moving in?!”

Oh, you are so clever!

When my mom and I are ready for dinner, we bust out our microwavable plates, dig out the scalloped potatoes and green beans from the cooler and head to the lobby. Traveling with prepared dinners makes life so much easier (for me that is). I have so many food restrictions that it just makes sense to come prepared with “safe” food.

My mom and I happen to glance behind us while microwaving our dinners and see the elevator woman staring at us.

She can stare and judge all she wants because no matter what she thinks, my mom and I are traveling across the country in style!

I just got back from an exhausting trip to Chicago where I spent the majority of my time packing up my grandparents’ house. Lucky for me, my grandma is a hoarder and enjoys collecting the most random objects. She also freaks out with the prospect of getting rid of her possessions, so it wasn’t until now that we were able to get in there and haul out.

For a few months now, my grandma has been in a nursing home for Alzheimer’s. While in the recent visits she’s been skeptical about whether she knows me or not, I want to make sure I never forget her quirks; the quirks I can always look back on and laugh, because if I’m sure of one thing, I don’t want to look at the past ten years in a negative light.

Grandma always had a fascination with Native Americans because her great-grandmother was a Cherokee Indian princess, (or so I’ve been told for the past 20 years). When she first met my boyfriend, Ryan, the first thing out of her mouth was, “You must have Indian blood in you!” I guess Ryan has a certain high-cheek-boned, dark-complexioned look to him. Of course Ryan went along with it (his great-great-grandfather was a chief…) and Grandma instantly fell in love with him.

Over the past few years, Gma’s Alzheimer’s has continued to get worse. There were times we would ask about her great-grandmother, the Indian princess, and she would look at us like we had 7 eyes.

Gma: “What are you talking about? My Indian blood comes from my great-grandfather, who was a chief of a tribe.” (No grandma, that’s Ryan’s great-great-grandfather… I kid, I kid!)

There has always been one story my grandma has told everyone she has ever passed on the street, been introduced to, checked out with at the grocery store…you get the point. I’ll call this the “Frederick” story.

Grandma: “I have a thing for Fredericks. You see my maiden name was Frederick and then I married a man whose middle name was Frederick. Now my current husband’s first name is Frederick. So you see, I was a Frederick and then I married two Frederick, which equals three Fredericks. I have a thing for Fredericks because there were plenty of Fredericks in my life. I must attract Fredericks. I have a thing for Fredericks.”

My dad has heard that story more than 40 times in his life.

Hoarding isn’t a funny thing; however sometimes all you can do is laugh about the situation. While cleaning out my grandparents’ house I couldn’t help but do just that. I found enough straws that my grandma had taken to build a house for one of the three little pigs.

As for twisty ties and napkins, she had you covered. She must have never thrown either things away in 50 years. When we were cleaning up we sometimes found a need for a twisty tie. You could just glance down at the floor and always come up with a few. (Thanks Grandma for thinking ahead!)

Other hoarding habits were a little less helpful. My grandma had a deep love for paper plates. So much so that she refused to throw them away. All she would do is wash them and stick them in a rack to dry. Dirty, paper plates are reusable. Who would have known? This always posed a problem when we would go over there for dinner. Requesting to not use paper plates often became awkward.

I hope I can always laugh at her old, quirky habits. Although they were obvious signs of Alzheimer’s, and to put it boldly Alzheimer’s is shitty, it’s still part of who she is. She may not remember who I am all the time or the fact she claimed for 20 years her great-grandmother was a Cherokee princess, but I can always make her happy with a bit of sparkly nail polish and an ice cream with caramel.

(By the way, that’s not her shirt. She enjoys rummaging around other people’s closets at the nursing home and laying in other people’s beds. She is feisty!)

I have a bad track record when it comes to irons.

There is something evil about them that draws me in and forces me to do harm to inanimate objects.

I am going to go ahead and stereotype all irons as evil creatures here; yes, it has come to stereotyping.

It all started when I was two years old and my mom forced me to do my own ironing. I really wanted to wear my ruffled, bear top with matching ruffled shorts that day but they were wrinkly. So I did what any two-year-old would do; I turned on the iron and waited for it to get hot.

It was then that the iron influenced me with its evil ways to place the iron on top of my parent’s cedar hope chest.

My mom found the hope chest a minute later looking like this:

From that point on though, I wasn’t forced to iron my own clothing until I was four years old.

I consciously stayed away from irons until I was 21 years old. Eventually I had to give in because I was becoming a working woman, (aka: I had an internship that required me to iron my pants.)

One morning as I was waiting for the iron to heat up, I placed it on top of the ironing board. It was at that moment that the iron LEAPED off of the board and landed itself hot side down onto my cheap, rented carpet. The iron knew that this cheap, rented carpet would melt the second it released its evil, hot steam.

Before I knew it, the damage was done:

And once again, the evil iron made its mark upon the world.

Hello San Francisco, where I stand out as a tourist with my shorts and printout maps!

No, I haven’t officially moved yet but I’m here trying to find an apartment and take advantage of those Fourth of July mattress sales! (Only mature, responsible adults get excited about new mattresses and financing, right?)

While Ryan has been busy at work, I’ve been keeping myself occupied by discovering San Francisco and getting my “things” together for job searching. I’m sure some of you who read my post about what it’s like being a girlfriend of a startup founder (http://www.opazazzyzen.com/2010/05/the-life-of-a-startup-founders-significant-other/) are curious how my transition into his life (once again!) is going. Luckily I’m an independent person who feels comfortable going out on my own and discovering San Francisco. I knew he would be busy and I’ve been proven correct, but I’m going to be just fine! Plus I’ll be just as busy.

Job searching will be my number one priority once I move. Until then though, I’ve been enjoying taking runs around San Fran trying to learn the area.

The Bay Bridge and San Francisco Bay are only a minute walk outside my potential apartment; (the details are still being worked out.)

Even the city landscape is beautiful with the many layers to the city.

I also discovered the Abraham Lincoln Brigade Memorial (which smelled of weed at every corner and seemed to be a popular hang out for pigeons and the homeless.)

One of my more interesting adventures happened by accident yesterday when I was searching for a Whole Foods; (I seem to have a lot of accidents.) I googled and found one a few miles away from the DailyBooth office. I printed out my map and even plugged the route into my iPhone for extra comfort. A long 45 minutes later (uphill both ways), I finally came upon the Whole Foods. I was so proud of myself. I checked in using Gowalla (just to prove to everyone that I succeeded in making it there) and then walked around the store to find my lunch.

By the time I was ready to leave, I wasn’t looking forward to the long walk back (uphill both ways). I had enormous blisters on my feet and my bag was feeling heavy. Plus the wind was picking up and I was feeling the coldness since I was the n00b wearing shorts.

Eventually I got back to the DailyBooth office and was ready to celebrate my feat with the rest of the gang. They weren’t there to help me celebrate though; they were there to help make fun of me! They began questioning why it took me over 45 minutes to get to Whole Foods when there was one less than 5 minutes away.

WHAT DO YOU MEAN THERE IS ONE 5 MINUTES AWAY?

I want to “C.” The one 5 minutes away was “A.”

Sigh. I’m sure this won’t be the first time this will happen to me.