Now It's Called "The 8"

July 17, 2010 was exactly 5 years from the date I maneuvered my Penske moving truck onto the curb in front of my parent's house in Texas after having driven 24 hours straight from San Diego. This also was the day I found myself stuffing my SUV with all of my belongings preparing to migrate back to the west coast.  The only difference this time, was that my A-driver was my dad.  


Having my parents as roommates after moving back in with them upon graduating from undergrad was not as bad as I thought.  I managed to create just enough distance between us all by disappearing for runs in the park, lunch with friends and dinner shifts at work.  But now I found myself in extreme close quarters with my dad riding shot gun, my rear view mirror reflecting clear blue plastic containers and cardboard boxes that had been used one too many times and the sound of tarp flapping in 80 mile per hour winds as it slowly ripped apart from the mattress it was protecting while strapped to the top of my car.  This was probably my 5th or 6th time making this drive and I knew that I could get to San Diego in 22 hours(20 if Highway Patrol didn't interrupt my commute), but I didn't realized that I would be stuck in this jail cell on wheels for the next 26 instead.  


My relationship with my dad has always been great, but my mom was the parent who taught my sister and I to drive for good reason.  My dad is the type of man who the school systems should personally thank for not having decided to become a teacher.  It never failed growing up, if my dad were in the position of leadership in a project around the house that required more than two hands, someone ended up in tears with my dad yelling and requesting a new assistant.  Typically I was my dad's helper, but it never was as easy as it possibly could have been if I could only read my dad's mind.  Which ironically seemed to be something that he would growl at me when I didn't know what he wanted me to do and standing there waiting for direction was the wrong approach.  Luckily, this was my car, my drive, my money and my radio.  I knew that this trip was going to be interesting the moment we pulled away from my parent's house. 


We didn't make it 30 miles outside of Houston, and no where near sunrise, the first time we pulled off of I-10 to re-secure my mattress to the roof of my car.  The wind had started to tear the plastic tarp apart and we were expecting rain on much of our way out west.  This would be the first of at least seven stops to re-hogtie my mattress.  Somewhere between Texas and New Mexico I was certain that my mattress would blow right off of my car as the noise from the flapping tarp was overwhelming.  When we pulled over for gas at one point, we saw that my mattress was tied so tight to my car that the wind had pushed it slightly upward into the shape of a lower case "n".  How we made it to San Diego like that, I just don't know.  


We managed to drive through hours of storms in West Texas, witnessed a double rainbow in New Mexico, baked in the 119 degree heat in Yuma, where I burned my forearm on the side of my car as my dad yelled at me to "pull the rope tighter on my side of the damn mattress" and then finally put my car in "park" in front of my new home around 8:00 pm. pacific standard time.  This road trip was the first time I hadn't been the lead singer in a continuous private concert, with the windows rolled down and a 6-pack of water sitting front row next to me while I sang every Rascal Flatts song known to man at the top of my lungs.  It also was the first time that my dad's snoring became an additional instrument to my Dierks Bentley play list.  If the new California roadway lingo wasn't enough of a reminder that I was now officially a Texas transplant, an awkward conversation I soon would have with my new landlord would have immediately reminded me of where I had ended up.  

When dragging ourselves 50 feet up the driveway and to my door, you could feel a light breeze and smell the ocean water in the air as well as hear a steady "hmm" from the cars on "the 5" less than a half mile away.  All I wanted at this point was to unload my car, shower, put on my favorite TX A&M pj's and pass out on my "n" shaped mattress.  Little did we know, that wasn't going to happen.  After searching for the key in the dark, which my Craigslist produced landlord had hidden so well you'd think the Titanic's blue heart diamond was used as the key chain, and failed to locate it; she finally offered to drive over and let me in.  I didn't think this would be the way we would first meet, but I also didn't think my landlord would be such the hippie as she turned out.  We walked into my new place only to discover that the power had not been turned on and that the windows hadn't been opened in quite some time.  We were standing in a dark living room feeling the hot stale air as drips of sweat beaded on my neck and trickled down my spine.  I began unloading my car while my dad looked for the main breaker to the house.  Awkwardly hidden in a corner of the detached garage, he found the breaker and we had light!!  When we walked back into the house I noticed a thermostat box on the wall.  I played with it for a little bit and noticed that much like my cranky temper, the house was not cooling off.  I called my landlord once again, and this time asked her how to turn on the A/C.  She was quiet for a short second then confusingly asked, "What's that?"  This was my wake-up slap in the face.  I now live in Southern California where the water is blue, the air is crisp and people don't know what "A/C" means.  This also became my Que. to get right back into my car and make my first trip to Wal-Mart at 11:45 pm for a much needed room fan.  


This officially was the start of my new chapter in life....