sixsixsix.

My daddy asked me to write a guest blog on his blogspot. Here it is. I am not a very good reporter, but I did my best to take note of the events as they happened. The older and wiser I get, like really, really wise, the more I am beginning to understand that much of the way that I am, is because of the parental units. Bakers do not believe in bad luck. However, we tend to often find ourselves invaded with a series of unfortunate events from time to time, or like, everyday. I have inherited this “curse” if you will. No big. Onward march.

Mom and and dad are coming for a visit. Exciting right? That’s questionable. The last two times they came to visit, someone bit the dust just as they arrived and they immediately had to turn around and go back home. So we all were excited yet somewhat apprehensive about trip attempt number three. Mom and dad would drive in late Thursday night. Doctors appointment for mom and play time on Friday. Pops and I would run the Cowtown Saturday, and we all would head to Odessa together for the remainder of the weekend. This was the plan. Nothing would derail with THE PLAN.

THURSDAY: Pam and Reggie depart roughly an hour behind schedule. Shortly after leaving they encounter near death experience when cut-off on the highway, by “one of those” drivers. Stop One. Popeye’s. Big Spring, Texas. Dinner time. Park next to suspicious couple and chihuahua in an old, junker Sudan. Odd. Moving on… Food is ordered. Call number order is 666. Hmm… They wait. They sit. No food. They wait. They sit. No food. Deondra, the extremely friendly Popeye’s employee (equivalent to Bon Qui Qui at King Burger…youtube it.)continues to call out that a two piece and a five piece meal are ready at the counter. Pam and Reggie ordered two, two-piece meals. As this order of food sits, and gets cold, I am told it was also molested by a rather hairy man in a dirty, cut off t-shirt as he leaned over the counter in reach of some condiment. Mmm… (The basketball scene from along came Polly should be running thru your mind at the present.) After Reggie decided to ask about order #666, she points to the food on the counter and says that is it. No, that is not what we ordered. And that food is a bit contaminated with belly hair. Deondra lovingly refills the order, wrong again, but who cares. Return to car, suspicious couple, chihuahua, crappy Sudan, all still there. Watching a movie? Strange. On the road again. Pam begins to get sick from Popeye’s. (I’m calling food poisoning, compliments of Deondra.) Reggie pulls over for Pam to puke. Stop two. Mc Donald’s. Eastland, Texas. All Reggie wants is a cup of coffee. We are nearing twelve a.m. here… no coffee for Reg at Mickey D’s. How about a shake then? No shake for you. We already cleaned the machine, don’t want to have to get out the ice cream, mix up cookies, and press a bunch of buttons…nope. Next door the drive-thru light of Starbucks glows brightly, with a promise of salvation. Pam and Reggie mosey over to the Starbucks. Oh wait, just kidding. They didn’t mean to leave that light on. Near the hour of one a.m., Pam and Reg pull up to the Cabochon, home of their beautiful, talented, angelic, witty, rich, really, really, really popular daughter.

FRIDAY: The rents decide to kick start their day with a delicious, hot breakfast from Road Trip gas station. Wait, what? Really mom and dad? You are in freaking Dallas and you get breakfast from a gas station? That’s right; a crusty chicken biscuit sandwich serves you right! Ha-ha. Doctors office. Pam gets shots in the knee. OUCH! Drive to Fort Worth for race packet pick up. Mayhem. Golly, I love race expos. Dinnertime. Reservations are pushed back an hour because Maggianos is just “really, really busy.” After a tasty, late, dinner Reggie goes to bed with much indigestion. Not so good on the eve of a race… not much sleep is happening. Then, at the hour of two a.m., the mystery calls start rolling in. Prank calls? Pocket calls? Whatever it was, someone wanted to talk to Reggie in the wee hours of the night. Nice. Pam has nightmares and wakes up screaming, twice. Don’t worry, Reggie is awake. He is talking to mystery caller on the phone. Indigestion continues, well into the morning.

SATURDAY: Race day begins with the toilet. Poor, poor Pops. No more late night carbo loading for you. Ha-ha. We depart for the race on schedule. We sit in traffic for thirty minutes…gun shot, race starts…we sit in traffic for twenty more minutes. Unfortunately we forgot our quilting needles. We totally could have gotten thru a good five or six quilt squares. Penny jumps out and begins run thirty minutes after gunshot. Alone. For miles. Reggie parks and begins race forty minutes after gunshot. Fantastic. Temperature: thirty-five degrees. Wind chill: somewhere around fifteen. It was quiet the physical/mental battle for sure, but the promise of pancakes at the finish line is always encouraging. That and, the fact that if I didn’t finish this race, I would have to give charity money back to people. And that would just be uncomfortable. Wait, what is this? Time to pack up and head for Odessa? The plan resided intact! I proudly let the parental units smell me all the way down I20 as we drove back to Odessa. I didn’t have time to shower… oops. Should have reserved more time for that in THE PLAN. Pam and Reggie are now at completion of Dallas trip number three, and although there were some slightly annoying, and somewhat odd undertakings, they had in fact stayed for the whole duration of the trip. Sweet, sweet success.

Now let’s make note of what was great about this mess we call “vacation.” Dad and I raised a substantial amount of money for charities in our race, and we also ran it in honor of our loved ones now gone. Matt, Elaine, and Jason. It was also Pop and I’s first race together and we both had rock star times. Oh and how could I forget Masen was able to save San Francisco from a terrorist attack! This was a very memorable insert from dinner at Maggianos with my dear friend Masen whom is a nurse in the ER. Apparently that afternoon, some dude strolled in with a knife protruding from his neck, and he was claiming that he had to kill himself, because his brain was programmed to detonate a bomb in San Francisco. Thousands would die if he did not kill himself before the bomb was activated. I am soooo glad Masen was there to intercept. San Francisco is in grave debt. and I’m just gonna put it out there and say, if you ever receive the call #666 for anything, just put the number down, and walk away… Some misfortunate mishaps, yes, but all in all, a great weekend. Baker style.