Texas is...Pretty?

When you’re living on the road, the first thing to go is your concept of time. I have no idea what day it is. I couldn’t even tell you when yesterday became today. But I do know that we are in Texas. Space and I are still on good terms, its just Time that I’ve had a serious falling out with recently. Hours on the bus can fly by, with every spare moment filled with a new running joke, witty banter, and some not-so-clever but equally amusing observations. But there are some minutes that drag like an angry paraplegic veteran on a makeshift skateboard. These minutes seem to have reproduced among themselves at an alarming rate in the past few days (especially considering their lack of appendages), which is why the Bus Crew was happy to get a day off from presenting yesterday. We ran errands from our hotel in Plano and checked quite a few tasks off of our ever-growing to-do list. I was deeply hurt when we were finally kicked out of the hotel lobby that we had lovingly called our home base for an afternoon (home is where the internet is, right?). Dear Homewood Suites, you did not live up to your name. My disappointment knows no bounds.

Though my emotional wound was still fresh, I found solace in watching Brent (a.k.a. mister tall and handsome I was captain of the swim team) Butler on his first try at grease duty. The job has been described before, but I will remind you that the task is as disgusting as it is simple. You stick a hose into a large bin festering grease, and try your best not to wretch for an extended period of time. Brent, being the near-perfect specimen of man that he is, obviously had to take grease duty to the ‘next level’ by sucking up the carcass of a blackbird from the grease bin of the chick-fil-a that we were parked behind. Brent, you truly are a God among men.

Brent Butler: Stoic

Before Brent could have another attempt at the golden hose, he and I took off to see the 7:00 showing of Ratatouille (Which was fantastic by the way. Bravo Pixar). As the rest of the bus began their drive to Houston, Brent and I giggled uncontrollably at animated rats, unaware that we had left both of our cell phones on the bus. Now I know you must be worried about the hero and heroine of this particular blog post at the moment, but I assure you the story will have a happy ending. (No Brent, not that type of happy ending. Put the mug away.)

Upon realizing that we had no way of communicating with the bus when we stepped outside of the theater, we were relieved to find the chase car parked in plain sight, waiting to deliver us to our next destination: The Love Field Airport! Brent described the airport concisely and accurately, “It’s like they built this place with the future in mind, and then completely ran out of money.” However the mass of concrete that is Love Field lived up to it’s name when Brent and I intercepted a one Miss Whitney MacFadyen at Gate 10 where we were reunited after her week long break of time off with 'the boyfriend' (ew whatever. who needs a boyfriend when you have the bus?). The love was in the air, and this love was real. Oh so real.

Meanwhile on the bus: I’m unclear on the facts, but from what I hear, most of the crew had changed into their grumpy-pants for the ride. And by that I mean they were crabby…not that we all have a designated article of clothing that we call our ‘grumpy-pants.’

The Chase Car Kids got into Houston (after a quick midnight Waffle House snack) around 3am and were re-united with the rest of the Crew who had checked into the luxurious Hilton Hotel (Provided by Waste Management! Oh la la!) only a half hour before.

Now where I’m confused is whether our reunion was at the end of this day or at the beginning of the next. Just to be thorough, I shall continue to tell this epic tale of love, deceit, cunning, and heartbreak, and finish where all good stories do, at the end. Ahem.

We awoke after what could technically be considered a nap at the Hilton, and piled into the bus to go to the Waste Management Headquarters for a breakfast meeting with the execs. Way up on the 37th floor we were led to a nice meeting room full of leather seats and croissant breakfast sandwiches. It was at this point that I realized the world of luxury that we had entered. As more people entered the room we noticed that all of the Waste Management employees and executives were wearing green. At first I thought that this, like the croissant breakfast sandwiches were an over the top, but entirely appreciated way of welcoming our bus. But I was wrong…as it turns out, every Tuesday at Waste Management headquarters is ‘green Tuesday’ (don’t get too excited, but I just deduced that it must be Tuesday today. Fantastic. Now if I only knew the date…). This weekly holiday is much like casual Friday, but with a more fresh springy feeling as opposed to an abundance of ‘Aloha weekend!’ Hawaiian shirts that make my eyes bleed. I like green Tuesday. I especially liked the woman who told me, with every ounce of sincerity that she could muster, that she buys green underwear specifically for green Tuesdays.

The meeting we had was informal and informative, and the time that we spent giving bus tours and interviews outside of the headquarters was equally as enjoyable. The attention that we get always amazes me, as does the receptiveness and genuine interest of the people we have the opportunity to meet and speak with.

We are now on the road to Austin. I’m writing this ridiculously long blog entry, envying the grazing cows we pass, Nate is driving (HOLD ON TO YOUR KEESTERS KIDS), the chase car is not-unsurprisingly nowhere to be seen, Brent was given the grumpy-pants within 5 minutes of waking up (apparently they do exist…apparently Brent does sometimes wake up), all while Frances and Kate are sewing star-spangled babydoll tops for tomorrow’s festivities. I just figured it out, today is Tuesday, July 3, and my tummy says that I’d like some dinner. I guess Time and I have reconciled our differences. I knew it’d come around.

The End (kinda…)

-Hayley

Holy Facial Hair Batman!

Fact 'o the Day: Chris Barth looks like a badgerman. A terrifying badgerman.