I'm pregnant, I'm an opium fiend, I'm in love with a poet named Shelley who's a famous whoopsy and Mother didn't die, I killed her.- Sally, Blackadder

The Wildermobile was packed tighter than this this weekend. Thank goodness for tarps and straps. And sweet, sweet coffee.

On the beginning of a long Labor Day weekend, I got in the trusty Wildermobile and headed due north. From Houston, almost everyplace of interest is north, what with the ocean and all making the entire concept of “south” merely some sort of bizarre geographical abstraction. Since the Wildermobile was not configured of amphibious operation, I decided to stick with “north” as a general direction. Up first light umm, sometime fairly early, I got in the car and hit the road on a road trip. By myself.

Why by myself? The Mrs. put the kibosh on this being a family trip, since everyone (The Mrs. herself, Pugsley, and The Boy) had some sort of ebola/SARS/bird-flu thing going on. In truth, I was feeling just a bit Dengue-feverish (or maybe it was a bit West Nile?) but decided to press onward. I drove. For hours. Finally I got out of Houston. Then I drove hours more. Then I got out of Texas. Driving across Texas is difficult, because, frankly, there’s so much Texas to drive through. Once you manage to get through Texas, though, you can cut through states with the rapidity of Paris Hilton going through trust fund heirs.

So, I took the opportunity to go solo. I drove The Mrs.’ rig because it is bigger and I was going to pick up another Wilder, Alia S. Wilder, to be exact and all of her junk. Alia S. Wilder is a relative that’s close enough that you would drive a bazillion hours to go and help. In this case help is translated into “I will drive and help you move from Anytown, USA to Houston.” I finally get to Anytown and proceed to go to Alia S. Wilder’s house? Nah. I’ve got a buddy in town who puts a mean grill on a burger. I’ll pick Alia S. Wilder in the morning. My buddy has beer, too.

I wake up at the appointed time the next morning, and arrive at Alia S. Wilder’s apartment. She meets me in the parking lot. I see her appraising the Wildermobile. “Think everything will fit?” I ask.

“Oh, yeah, there’s lots of room. Come on up to the apartment. I’m all packed.”

I follow her up.

I survey the scene of desolation, and see that every horizontal surface is covered by, well, junk. I don’t mind (at all) helping people move. I draw the line, though, at packing anything for them. How do I know the difference between a priceless family heirloom and mummified cat droppings? Not the kind of moral hazard I like to open myself up to. Alia S. Wilder isn’t packed. The words to the Shelly poem, Ozymandias spring to mind.

“Look upon my works, ye mighty, and despair.” I even quote them.

I then walk into the bedroom and see a queen size bed. A queen size bed. I have no idea what kind of car you drive, but I have never driven an enclosed vehicle where a queen size bed will fit inside the passenger compartment. I think that Yao Ming might have such a vehicle, and it might even fit in the driver’s seat area with room to spare.

Immediately I spring into planning mode. The first plan is to pretend that I’ve never been there and just run away screaming into the mid-day Sun, foaming at the mouth. A second option would be to go and get a cheap trailer, and move the junk. I sold my old trailer in Fairbanks, and could use something to haul . . . well, I could always use a trailer, even if I can’t think of a damn thing I’d ever use it for.

My buddy with the beer and the good burgers is available. We go buy a trailer and hook it up to my vehicle, with he and I doing a good Curley and Larry imitation in the meantime. I had no idea that he could make a trailer connection shoot dirt clods, rocks and dust into my face at nearly the speed of sound, but, I did get to trot out my “n’yuk, n’yuk, n’yuk, wise guy, huh?” for his amusement. Fortunately he knows the eye-gouge-block trick.

So, at five p.m. we finally load up the Wildermobile, the trailer, and head into the sunset.

The journey itself went fairly quickly. We talked about everything, I drove the whole way, and only slept a little. At five AM on a Sunday morning we pulled into the local Wal*Mart© parking lot and I dragged my stiff carcass inside and bought . . . two dollars worth of cat litter and two dollars worth of cat box.

We got home before the Sun broadcast it’s deadly electromagnetic spectra upon the earth, and I crawled into bed. The Mrs. had been up fretting and worrying the whole night, yet when Pugsley awoke I booted her out of bed, all sick and tired to watch the kids.

The moral of this story? Your mother was sick and tired. Your father did that to her.