My deficit of sleep and surplus of emotion have left me with a raging case of stress acne.  Just in time for Christmas!

This Christmas Eve morning finds me in Kansas City, having driven out of Nashville yesterday without crying a single tear.  Scrape a face off Mt. Rushmore to make room for mine – I’m hard as stone.  Actually, I think I’m just tired of crying.  I’ve cried a lot these past few weeks in anticipation of this move – because as convinced I am that it’s the right decision, it still hurts my heart like whoa.

The plan is to continue on to Colorado today.  There’s a blizzard stretching all along I-70, growing progressively worse the further west you go.  So all that “I’ll be home for Christmas” talk?  Might be IN YOUR DREAMS, sucker.

But if the past is any indication, there are angels that fly with my Honda.  May it be so today – and for you, too, if you’re traveling.  Merry Christmas!

Last night I had a dream that Kenny Chesney and a completely bald Keith Urban wanted to hang out with me.  Actually, to be specific, Kenny asked if he could drive my car, and I was like, “CAN YOU EVER” – which is weird because I generally distrust men in necklaces.

So Kenny, Keith, and I loaded into the old Honda, and I insisted on sitting in between them, which was very awkward because that put me in between the bucket seats and on top of the emergency break.  But we were cruising along, and at one point, I said, “Guys, you know that we’re going to have to take a picture – because no one is ever going to believe me.”  They both laughed reluctantly, like, “Yeah, sure,” but I could tell that they didn’t really want anyone to know that they had spent any time with me.  They were just using me for my car.

I arrived home last night to 2 dead flies on my bedroom carpet, and one crawling on the wall above my closet. I killed it with my bible study book. Then, I discovered 4 more humongous, buzzy black flies in my bathroom. I shut them in there in hopes that when I woke up in the morning, they would have died of natural causes.

This morning, I opened the door to find them multiplied. There were 7 flies in the bathroom.

I mean, really? Seven flies? What is the deal?

And thus began the most boring blog of all time.

I can’t help it, though. After so much driving, so little sleep, so many miles, and such a numb derrière, I don’t even know the date. My brain is oatmeal. In fact, Dani sent me some homemade oatmeal in the mail (thanks, Dani!), and when I got home last night and opened the box, I mistook it for granola and POURED IT IN MY MOUTH.

A mouth full of dry oats is shockingly difficult to swallow.

Now, I would just like to pause and give all glory, laud, and honor to my 1990 Honda Accord, which delivered me safely to Colorado and back without a hitch. There have always been naysayers, pessimists, skeptics when it comes to belief in the Honda’s reliability, but I have never doubted it; it is the Engergizer Bunny.  It passed 200,000 miles in central Kansas, right by those gigantic energy windmills that look like something out of Transformers. Jeremy told me about a YouTube video of one exploding, so I looked it up, and now I’m terrified to drive that way again.

Now that I’m back, there is a lot to catch up on. If you’ve ordered an EP in the past couple of days, they’re going out today – I’m so sorry for the delay! If you haven’t ordered an EP, you should.

No, I probably won’t stop talking about it for awhile.  Like Bobby Brown, it’s my prerogative.

Number of times my car has been towed: 1

I don’t really watch “The Biggest Loser,” although I have a couple of times – enough to remember Dan Evans. Dan Evans, of season 5. Dan Evans, who lost a heroic 136 lbs. Dan Evans, the aspiring country artist. Dan Evans, whose CD entitled “Goin’ All Out” is being released today.

Dan Evans, whose mega “Goin’ All Out” tour bus hit my little Honda yesterday.

It’s not unusual to see a tour bus on the streets of Nashville – this is Music City, after all. But most artists tend to keep a low profile – it’s hard to tell who might be inside the bus. Not Dan Evans. His face is plastered all over his bus, along with his name – although, due to poor typography and a serious lack of spacing, I read “DANEvans” and thought that his name was indeed “Dane Vans.”

It wasn’t until the bus hit my car and the DANEvans decal was 18 inches from my face that I realized, “Oh, I was wrong – this is DAN EVANS, not DANE VANS. Charming.”

Blame it on traffic. Blame it on narrow streets. Blame it on a bus driver who was dreaming some seriously big dreams, attempting to navigate his way around a corner. But my bumper was the casualty. Scrape. Scratch. I honked my horn, rolled down my window, and yelled up at the driver, “Did you just crunch me?” He said, “Yes. I’m sorry. If you pull straight forward, you should be fine.”

Surprisingly, he was right. I pulled straight forward, and after the intial RASP of two bumpers separating, I was free from the wreckage*. And DANEvans went chugging merrily on his way.

No autograph or anything. The nerve.

*The “wreckage” consisted of a couple scrapes, but nothing cracked. Bumper, here’s a lesson that my heart has learned time and time again: the bastards can beat you up, but they can’t keep you down. You are bruised but not broken. And you will live to see another day.

After attending a church service on Sunday night, I offered to give a new friend a ride home. As we walked toward my car, she stopped.

“Wait, this is YOUR car?”

“Yes…?” I replied, hesitantly.

“My roommate and I have seen you all over town! We’ve been wondering who you are. In fact, we were right behind you on the freeway today, and noticed the Fresh Beer sticker.”

This town is so small, it’s frightening. Apparently, the very sight of my car results in me being the subject of conversation. But yes, I suppose that the Honda sticks out like a sore thumb these days. With it’s Washington plates, missing hubcap, and bitchin’ 1976 roof rack, it is looking particularly super-ghetto-fly.

Yesterday, on the way from Montrose to Colorado Springs, the air conditioner in my Honda quit working. Done. No cold air whatsoever. It was a miserable, sweaty drive over the mountains, but I managed to line up an appointment at a car repair shop for this morning.

I walked into Meineke to meet a man behind the counter. He was the spitten image of Steve Buscemi, but with a goatee. His eyes lit up as soon as I walked in.

“Hiiiiiii!!! How can I HELP you today?”

I told him of my car issues, and asked what he could do to help. Instead of asking about the car, he seemed more interested in ME. “Where are you from? Where are you headed? Why are you leaving Seattle? Don’t you just LOVE Colorado Springs? Maybe you should just stay here! Har har har!!!!” He laughed like a goat with Tourettes, all jerky and baying. I played along for a bit, but eventually told him my of my AC dilemma and left him the keys. He assured me that he would call as soon as it was finished.

When I finally returned several hours later, he was all a flutter.

“Annie! Annie, Annie, Annie. Hey, you! I’ve been trying to call you FOREVER! Where have you been? Target? That is just so awesome. Did you buy anything? Have you had lunch? A sandwich? Great. Great, great. Beautiful day today, huh? Have you seen the MOUNTAINS? Golly day!”

I eventually let him know that I had a friend waiting on me outside, and I needed to just pay and leave. He then spent a good 5 minutes typing diligently on his computer while making quiet humming noises: “Hmmm hmmmmm HMMM hmmm…” Finally, he looked up from his paperwork to deliver the news.

“You mentioned that you just had the radiator replaced. Do you trust these people – these people that fixed your car? Are they a reputable business? Because – and I’m not saying that this is intentional, but – I found a cable unplugged. Could they have possibly unplugged it on purpose? Out to get you? All I had to do was plug the cable back in, and your AC was back in working order. Freezing cold! Imagine that! I bet you’re glad, aren’t you? Yeah, I thought so.”

I smiled, and agreed with the great news, thinking that this was an easy fix, which would mean a small bill.

“So, I guess I’ll just charge you for an hour’s worth of labor – $65.”

Really, sir? For plugging in a cable?

“Okay, if you pay in cash, we’ll make it $50.”

What? Is this even legal? Is this a drug deal?

Reluctantly, I whipped out a $100 bill, and he proceeded to scrounge around in the cash drawer, yet could not come up with $50 in change. Eventually, after rounding up the kid in the pit changing the oil on a Chrysler, he borrowed $50 from his wallet, and carefully counted the $5’s and $1’s into my hand.

“So why are you leaving Seattle? I bet it’s because of love. Did love drive you away from Seattle? Whoever he is, I bet that he’ll follow you. All men know that women want to be pursued. Here’s my card, by the way. Keep in touch! No really, send me an email! And call me when you come back to the Springs. I’d love to see you! Take care of yourself, Annie!”

When I got into my car, I found a note on the dash: “Hi sweetie! -Jim” I found myself planning a most strange response: “Sir. I don’t quite know how this happened, or how we got to this point, but I think that – somehow – we need to break up. Because if women truly want to be ‘pursued,’ I swear, all you’ll get out of the deal is a restraining order.”

I am convinced that there are few feelings that can rival the thrill of crossing the border from eastern Oregon into western Idaho, where the speed limit leaps from 65 to 75. I accelerate, accelerate, accelerate, set the cruise control at 80, and FLY.

As I drove across the farmland of southern Idaho this afternoon, I reflected on my new reality. I now begin a lifestyle of working every other day. Except weekends. And I take the weekdays off. Permanent vacation without pay.

I am officially unemployed.

I will miss certain parts of my now-former job. The relationships that I formed at UPC were invaluable, and to be honest, I have been too overwhelmed at the actuality of leaving Seattle to really process the fact that I am gone. It will probably catch up with me somewhere around western Kansas, an area that makes me certain that there truly is a hell. But until then, I am marveling at the prospect of having no schedule, no place to be, no time constraints. Free as a bird, I am…

I listened to Jon Krakauer’s Into the Wild on CD today, and learned a new term: rubber tramp. To help you get the meaning, let me use it in a sentence: “I am a rubber tramp.”

Too vague? Oh.

A leather tramp is a wanderer who travels on his own two feet. A rubber tramp is a vagrant with the added bonus of a vehicle. And speaking of my vehicle, it truly is PACKED to the ceiling with stuff. I cannot see out the back window, or either of the back side windows. And speaking from personal experience tonight on the streets of Salt Lake City, parallel parking by braille is a huge challenge, even for the self-proclaimed champion of the hypothetical Parallel Parking Olympics.

Several nights ago, I dropped in on a local brewery. A friend (who will remain nameless to assure the preservation of his job) was working the nightshift, and invited me over to the east side for a free beer. After a 10pm tour of the facility, a quick nose-around in the gift shop, and a couple of pints, I came across a brewery bumper sticker.

You see where this is leading.

The next morning, I walked out to find “FRESH BEER” slapped across the bumper of my car. I don’t know what possessed me to think that this might be a good idea, as I have never put a bumper sticker of ANY sort on my 1990 Honda. Because apparently it’s too classy of a vehicle?

But alas, what’s done is done. Maybe I should just allow my car to be “that car.” My friend Kristen thinks it would be a great idea for all of my friends to bestow bumper stickers upon me before I leave on The Big Trip, and pioneering the effort, has offered one that says, “Watch out: I have PMS and a hand gun.” I now welcome any and all stickers – hopefully ones that will counteract the trashy start I’m off to. Although I’m not sure that “posh” and “bumper sticker” can co-exist in the same sentence.

It starts with bumper stickers. But before you know it, I could own a pair of jeans with P-H-A-T emblazoned across the ass.

The Honda is on the fritz again.

Recently, I walked out of my apartment to the sight of the tailpipe hanging precariously off of the muffler. One little tap of my toe, and the tip of the pipe went clattering to the asphalt, effectively circumcising my car.

And here, all along I thought she was a girl.

After an initial inspection, the kind men at Dr. Don’s Automotive told me that the muffler is “rusting out.” Also, it “needs a left front wheel bearing,” and the “right front shock is leaking.” I no speaka mechanic, but I do understand that these things are NOT GOOD, and if I choose to drive despite these warnings, I am literally in serious danger of a wheel “falling off.”

So while I wait for the day when I can get my car into the shop, I am on foot, traipsing from Ballard to the U-District to Fremont to North Seattle. On Monday, I walked 6 miles, and then ran 3. Yesterday, I walked 8. This morning, I have already logged 3.5, and have another 3 ahead of me this afternoon. On Friday, I will drop off my car in Ballard, and then hoof the 6 miles to Shoreline.

I have had many offers for rides, but to be honest, I like to walk. In the days before cars, people walked everywhere, and as a result, had hours upon hours to think. And in all of the thinking that I’ve been doing, the best thought I have had is this:

If things can be “discombobulated,” why can’t they be “combobulated,” or even just “bobulated”?