Tacoma Bound, Part the Third: Iowa to Montana, or the Day of Paris Hilton Shades!

Starting out peeling bug corpses off your windshield wipers does not bode well for your day, just so you know. Luckily, all other signs have indicated things will be going well today—that is, assuming we manage to find a store that sells iPod cables. If the iPods go dead, I think we might be proper fucked.

Called Fam this morning to let her know we weren't sucked up by a tornado and deposited in Topeka.

“I'm glad you called. I was worried, but I figured if they'd found your little bodies dead in a U-Haul, I would have gotten a call by now.”
“...Thanks.”

Unc and I keep playing phone tag. He seems to actually want to talk. This is either a bad sign, or he is trying to live vicariously through us while we are traveling. At this point, both are equally likely. Our repeated (and failed) attempts at conversation have given Maddo ample chance to win, however.

“Dude, I swear I just heard your phone.”
*checks “Huh. You did!”
“I WIN!”
*iPod queues up Marriage of Figero. Hysterical laughter commences.*

::EDIT::
I have fallen in love with a man in South Dakota. He has the perfect car, the perfect hat, and a rather nice tattoo on his left arm. I would have noticed none of this if it didn't take 15 minutes to fill the U-Haul's gas tank (I've named the car Mamma Gikka.)

And he's just driven off. Right then. This one-sided love affair is over.

In other news, I have a theory. I have concluded that if we keep collecting bugs at a consistent rate, the corpses of bugs past will create a sort of cushion, and any new bugs will simply bounce off unharmed. I told Maddo this and got a sick sort of satisfaction at the look of horror on her face. She probably would have been less freaked out had I not told her one of my mother's favorite road trip jokes mere minutes before passing on my new-found wisdom:
Q: What's the last thing that goes through a bug's head before it hits the windshield?
A: It's asshole.

::EDIT::
Concerning Ribs:
Maddo and I treated ourselves to dinner tonight on Unc's dime. I got a chicken sandwich, and Maddo got baby-back ribs. I was fine with this, perfectly fine, until she offered me a rib. I figured one wouldn't hurt, so I nabbed one and took a bite.

And then my taste buds came all over the rib. It was...intense.

I knew better than to have another one, since I didn't want to get sick and die on my way through Wyoming, but unfortunately Maddo didn't finish her rack and decided to take the leftovers as a snack. She drove her next shift, and I was ordered to be Keeper of the Leftovers. An hour later, we are driving down the road in a rainstorm, watching lightning zip about in the clouds above us, listening to a Harry Potter audiobook, and I can feel the ribs calling to me.

Maddo: *hears surreptitious rustle*
Me: *Om to the nom, motherfuckers*
Maddo: “What are you eating?”
Me: “...a rib.”
Maddo: “Oh my God. How many have you had?”
Me: “I ATE THEM ALL!” D:
Maddo: “Well, let me know if I need to pull over so you can barf.”
Me: “I regret nothing!”

15 minutes pass.

Maddo: “Hey, a rest stop. We could switch and you could wash your hands since they're all gross from the bbq.”
Me: “Oh, no they're not!”
Maddo: “No sauce was spared!”

10 minutes pass.

Maddo: “Wren, what was that noise?”
Me: “Oh, you know. I just put my foot through the lid of the to-go box and squished the sandwich.”
Maddo: -.-
Me: “What? It's not the ribs! I don't care!”

One final note: The pillowcases in the inn are labeled “soft” and “firm.” Unsurprisingly, I prefer the firm ones.

Tomorrow, we are planning on tripping to at least Spokane, though we'd like to actually reach the Cascades.