There are three reasons why road trips don’t rule:
- Public restrooms
- The driver gets to choose the music
- Public restrooms
Fortunately for me, the non-BF is nice in that he lets me listen to the 80s station on his satellite radio for as long as he can handle it. Which, unfortunately for me, is only to about Waco. Then it’s all his random shit, like bluegrass one minute and the next, some weird Icelandic music that once made me fall asleep standing up at a concert.
I am thirsty all the time – have been my whole life. And no, I am not diabetic – it is more like an oral fixation, one that I blame on my mom for only breastfeeding me for a couple of weeks because I kept biting her nipples until they would bleed. I didn’t have teeth, either – just a really strong mouth. Anyway.
At the beginning of each road trip, I make the non-BF stop by 7-11 so I can pick up “some drinks and snacks.” I come out with two bags of SHIT like Pringles and powdered sugar donuts and Cheetos and about 8 bottles of water. Cheetos – not the best thing to eat in a car, especially when you forgot napkins. Don’t tell me to lick the orange stuff off my fingers, either – I’m not at home and being a germaphobe, the orange stuff doesn’t go well with the 1/2 cup of anti-bacterial hand cleaner I slathered on my hands after leaving the 7-11.
The non-BF always declines the snacks, and since I don’t eat that shit in real life, road trips seem to make me ravenous for them. All that salty stuff and I need a drink. Of course, there’s the water. Oh yeah, and my Wine Sippy Cup I bring from home, which is about the equivalent of a
bottle serving of wine. It’s a really big sippy cup.
By the time we are 20 minutes out of town, I am halfway through the sippy cup and I need to pee.
Me: I need to pee.
The non-BF: (silence)
Me: I have to peeeeeeee.
The non-BF: Didn’t you go right before we left 20 minutes ago?
Me: I have a bladder the size of a walnut. The doctor told me so. Please, find a place soon.
The non-BF: I thought the doctor told you that you have a uterus the size of a walnut. I think it might be helpful if you didn’t drink an entire bottle of wine just 30 minutes out of Dallas.
Me: PLEASE! It has only been 20 minutes.
The non-BF: Relax, I’m taking the next exit.
Me: NO! I know that place. It’s icky.
The non-BF: Which place?
Me: The exit coming up. That gas station. Wait until two exits from here. They have a prettier bathroom.
The non-BF: Prettier bathroom? Seriously?
Me: Yes, and they also have that cute little beaver as their logo. I need a Beaver Hat.
The non-BF giggles.
Me: You are so infantile. Please hurry. I don’t want to walk around all night looking like Fergie after I piss myself silly.
This happens about five or six times during a four-hour road trip. Unless the Wine Sippy Cup does me in and the non-BF gets a reprieve while I pass out for an hour.
Any trip south on I-35 naturally involves stopping at the Czech Stop. I don’t care for kolaches but the non-BF does and after consuming probably half of the snacks I brought, a turkey & cheese sandwich is just what I need to really set me back four days on my carb and fat intake.
Of course, I have to pee there as well. (By the way, NOT my favorite public restroom on that stretch of highway. I suppose with all the foot traffic, though, they’d need a full-time bathroom attendant just to keep up.)
About ten miles outside of West, I feel queasy.
Me: I feel sick.
The non-BF: It’s probably all that shit you ate. Oh yeah, and the
bottle serving of wine you drank on the way.
Me: Pull over at the next place. I need some ice cream to settle my stomach.
The non-BF: Why are you eating like you’re Honey Boo Boo’s mom today?
Me: It must be Nervous Eati…wait, did you call me Honey Boo Boo’s mom? Really?
The non-BF: Heh. Wondering if you were actually listening to me or if this was a monologue.
Me: It’s probably just Nervous Eating.
The non-BF: What on earth are you nervous about?
Me: All those bathrooms.
I love the non-BF. He is the only person left who will actually travel by car with me for long distances. Now airplanes? That’s another story for another day.