How to Meal Prep for Trucking to Save Money and Be Healthier

Today I want to go something that helped me get through years of trucking. I was an over-the-road truck driver and I used to hate going to truck stops. It is too expensive and you spend a whole lot of money on food. That's what I’m going to talk to you about today is food.

A lot of us truck drivers, we gain a whole lot of weight because the stuff that they give us at those truck stops is just garbage. You got all the fast food, Subway is probably some of the best food you can eat but it gets expensive to eat it for every meal. What I used to do and what I still do now is I prep my food. One of the things as an owner-operator-- the best things you can have on your truck is a refrigerator and a microwave. You can go get a refrigerator from Lowes and you can get yourself an inverter. You should have no problems and you should have a freezer, like a freezer compartment up top and the rest is the fridge.

I’m going to tell you about some of my local meals I prepare during the week. I’m a local driver and I still prepare my meals for the week. If I make too much and the meals have been in the fridge too long I’ll throw them up in the freezer so they’ll keep longer.

I like to make a seafood gumbo on the weekend and then portion it out for my meals throughout the week. I put them in Ziploc bags and seal it up. When it’s frozen that will last me for months. When I’m ready for some more gumbo and bring it down and put it in the fridge to thaw out. I like to put crawfish, lobster, octopus, and white fish in the gumbo.

I also make a Caribbean jerk and teriyaki chicken with rice. I made this all on Sunday. Put the chicken on the rice in a Ziploc bag and it’s ready to go.

Another meal is tacos. I fix up the taco meat and cheese. Put them in a Ziploc bag and heat it up. Then just put it on some hard taco shells and it’s an easy meal.

I even prep breakfast. I made some eggs with some potatoes and turkey sausage. And I don't have to go out and spend a bunch of money.

I make a frozen frittata as well. Just freeze it all and bring it out for dinner of any heated up and it will taste just like when I made it.

This is something I tell a lot of the over the road truckers, even if you’re a local guy. The best thing you can do is get you a Nutribullet or a juicer. If you’re on the road and juicing it’s probably going to be too much of a problem so I would say go with a Nutribullet. Prep what you’re going to juice in individual Ziploc bags. That way you can simple dump the contents in the bag and turn it on and you’re ready to go.

This right here has been prepped, it’s got bananas, peanut butter, and avocado. You prep this up and put it in the freezer and take it down the day you need it. And plus the Nutribullet is pretty easy to clean up.

Another one is kale, spinach, raspberries, and bananas. Another one is more of a tropical blend, pineapple, cantaloupe, and oranges. Finally one with apple, strawberry, kale, and bananas. Just use fruits and vegetables you like.

It’s easy to prep and I don't have to go spending my money in a truck stop and this keeps you more healthy because all the processed garbage they have available. Fast food is terrible for you so you prep this stuff up you have it ready to go. You don’t have to spend a lot of money and a lot of time in the truck stops.

The only reason I go to the truck stops is to use the bathroom and to get diesel, that’s it. I don’t buy the food.

Last but not least, buy an inverter. Get you a 2000W inverter. Get you a refrigerator. You can get from the Lowes and they’re about $200. The 2000W inverter will probably be about $179. You can get yourself a microwave from a thrift store. Matter of fact you could possibly get the fridge from a thrift store also. Make sure you get one with a top freezer compartment and the fridge as a separate unit.

You'll be able to store all your food and you'll be happy. I hope this helps a lot of people and hopefully you won’t be one of the truck drivers that has a big ole beer belly that's hanging down past his knees because you have the power to eat what you want to eat on these trucks. You can eat better than people that's at home on your truck if you prep your meals. That's all I have to say. If you don't want to end up in a box think outside of it.


Setting the mood with the CB

George rides with the CB on, he always has and probably always will. He’s one of those drivers you will hear that comes on and says, “Eastbound, you got a city kitty shooting you in the face at the two-four-one yardstick, city kitty at the 241, come on.” Every great once in a while someone will shout back, and he thanks them and they tell each other to have a nice day and drive safely and it seems like we made a new friend. It doesn’t happen often, but it does happen occasionally, and it usually seems to make his day.

I’m still fascinated with the CB. It has been my wish to talk on it with fluidity since my first ride in the truck. I was pretty disappointed to find the only fluid language spoken on the CB anymore is hate. I don’t judge people by the color of their skin. Like George says, there are so many other reasons to hate people – if you get hung up on their skin color, you may never get to the really valid reasons to hate them. No need to be impatient, it doesn’t matter what color their skin is, people will reveal to you whether or not they’re an asshole pretty quick, so you should at least give it a go for a minute or two.

The CB chatter sets the mood in the truck sometimes – if the “N” word is the first thing we hear when George flips the switch in the morning, it sets a pall over the mood in the truck. He always shakes his head and pulls out, giving deep sigh and a “Well, here we go” kind of look. These are the days he keeps the volume low and doesn’t tell his friends on the other side about much ahead. Thank goodness these days are usually few and far between. He’s had some amazing CB conversations — we’ve “met” a lot of people. It’s awesome to have a decent conversation with a stranger, especially when the stranger is an old-timer with a thick Texas drawl and a laugh like Crusty the Clown. Partner, we didn’t get your name, but you made our morning going through Austin with your lamentations about “Well I’d just about rather be in Dallas right now, er hey-yell, er anywhar else that serves cold beer.” He punctuated the phrase with a perfect Crusty laugh, and it made us both bust out laughing. Definitely the right way to start the day, even if it was in the “hey-yell” traffic of Austin, Texas.

I totally suck at CB chatter, I don’t know the rules and I sound like a dummy. I tried to answer a guy on 75, going through Georgia, and ended up boffing it completely. I hear: “Northbound, looking good back to the 62. Tifton’s got a city boy welcoming committee at the 59, but he’s got a customer on the ramp, come on.” I grabbed the mic.

“10-4, driver, appreciate it. You be safe out there.”

“Well thank you little lady, you got a copy on what’s behind?”

I froze. I had no pertinent information for this man. I had been reading an article about fruit bats and wasn’t even really sure where we were. I had no business on the CB, at all. I thrust the mic at George.

“You’re good to the line man — coops are open down there, like they always are. Be safe, driver.”

He turned to me with the “very disappointed” look.

“The CB is not a toy. It’s a tool.”

“Yes, I know. I apologize, come on.”

“You’re not funny.”

“10-4”


Beware the $89 Chair

Before I begin this story, I’d like to state that all names and places have been changed (at the request of my attorney) to imaginary and unsuspecting characters. Please note that all surliness represented on my behalf is completely real, and no furniture store employees were injured during the writing of this piece. (Apparently, furniture store employees are incredible athletes, who can run and hide like the Viet Cong when threatened with bodily harm.)

I was minding my own business last week, watching my daily fill of filthy lies and important drug infomercials on the television, when my senses were assaulted by a screaming fat man.

“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN! TODAY ONLY!! GET YOUR BEAUTIFUL, CUSTOM-MADE BEDROOM CHAIR FOR ONLY EIGHTY-NINE DOLLARS – DELIVERED!!! COME TO MIM JILLER FURNITURE STORE IN ARMPIT, OHIO AND GET YOURS!! TODAY ONLY!!”

This huge, sweaty man went on to introduce himself as Mim Jiller himself, and proceeded to have what I can only describe as a grand-mal seizure about the quality and perfection of his gorgeous, eighty-nine dollar bedroom chairs. He wrapped up this entirely disturbing episode by flopping his walrus-like body into a giant, fluffy chaise lounge and grimacing at the camera in a futile attempt at what I suspect was a smile.

My interest was piqued on so many levels that I immediately forgot about the tardive dyskenisa my new medication promised to give me, and got in the car to head for Armpit, Ohio, to buy myself a beautiful eighty-nine dollar bedroom chair.  I was also emotionally prepared to assist Mr. Jiller with CPR, if necessary.

Never having  been the proud owner of a bedroom chair, I had no idea what to expect. I was hoping for something like the giant chaise lounger that Mr. Jiller had thrown himself into at the end of his commercial, but was excited at the prospect of a chair in the bedroom at all. This was a whole new concept for me – a chair dedicated solely to the bedroom. Crazy.

When I pulled into the drive, the peeling warehouse and empty parking lot should have clued me in, but my fervor was so intense to have a damn bedroom chair, I didn’t even notice the tumbleweeds blowing around the yard. The hand-lettered ‘OPEN’ sign gave me great joy, and I entered the portal to join my new horizons through bedroom chairs.

After my eyes adjusted to the darkness of an entire warehouse lit by one bare bulb in the center of the ceiling, the smell assaulted me with such force as to shake my strong intention to have a bedroom chair and quickly flee the premises. Unfortunately, I had given Jake, the official Bedroom Chair Salesman, time to get between myself and the door.

Jake looked as if he had been sleeping in one of the furniture boxes behind the building. His sharpie-written name tag hung loosely from a wrinkled gray sweatshirt, complete with grease stains and frayed cuffs. Jake apparently had no love for combs or razors and appeared to be wearing bits of the past three or four meals in his tangled beard. I was immediately afraid of Jake and wanted to exit the building with great force. As I moved toward the only visible means of escape, Jake stepped in front of me and stuck his dirty hand out.

“HI THERE! I’M JAKE!! HOW CAN I HELP YOU TODAY?!! DON’T TELL ME – YOU WANT A BEDROOM CHAIR, RIGHT?!”

I was frozen in fear and wondered if Jake was deaf, or if the screaming was some sort of terrorist sales tactic he had learned in Afghanistan. The last thing on earth I wanted to do was touch his hand to shake it, and the thought of a bedroom chair filled me with intense trepidation at this point. I put my hands in my pockets, and began negotiation for extrication from this intense situation.

“Uh, sorry Jake – just got over a cold – don’t shake hands, ya’ know? Um, yeah, I wanted a bedroom chair, but I really don’t see anything I like here. I’m just gonna come back another time.”

Like when I’m armed and with twenty other people.

“OH NO! YOU CAN’T LEAVE YET – YOU HAVEN’T EVEN SEEN THE CUSTOM MADE BEDROOM CHARIS!! JUST GIVE EM’ A LOOK, I’M SURE YOU’LL SEE SOMETHING YOU LIKE!”

His head bobbed up and down, and for a moment I was afraid that he might be trying to avoid sniper fire, but I eventually realized it was Jake’s way of physically intimidating me into looking at his frightening bedroom chairs. I realized that I was going to have to go along with this ruse in order to remove myself from this debacle without incident.

“Okay Jake, you’ve got five minutes to show me. I’m really not in a financial position to buy a bedroom chair today…”

“THEY’RE ONLY EIGHTY-NINE DOLLARS –DELIVERED! NOW TAKE A LOOK OVER HERE – THEY’RE JUST LITTLE GEMS – LOOK AT EM’!!”

With a flourish generally reserved for “The Price Is Right,” Jake flipped on a spotlight that illuminated six of the tiniest chairs I had ever seen in my life. They looked like Lilliputian replicas of regular chairs. There was nothing splendid or fantastic about any of them. I realized quickly I had been the victim of ‘bedroom chair phenomenon’ and immediately became angry.

“What the hell is this, Jake? These chairs are useless. Are they for cats? Really Jake, I drove all the way out here to get a bedroom chair, and you show me this tiny shit?”

Jake was truly shocked that I didn’t admire his ‘little gems’. He looked genuinely injured.

“MA’AM, BEDROOM CHAIRS ARE SUPPOSED TO BE SMALL, THEY’RE FOR BEDROOMS. PEOPLE SIT ON THEM TO PUT THEIR SHOES ON. THEY’RE NOT FOR EVERY DAY USE; THEY’RE MORE DECORATIVE THAN ANYTHING.”

I’d had enough of his screaming and I was determined to leave immediately.

“Quit that damn screaming, Jake, and get a grip. If someone sat on those chairs even once, they’d break into a thousand pieces. What the hell do you use a decorative chair for, anyway? What, do you put a sign on it warning people not to sit on it? Now get the hell out of my way, I’m leaving you and your stupid damn decorative chairs.”

Ever the fanatical cleric salesman, Jake gave it one last try.

“WE HAVE BEAUTIFUL DINING ROOM TABLES!! LET ME SHOW YOU THE NEWEST FABRIC AND BALSA WOOD SOFA ON THE MARKET!! THEY’RE GEMS, I’M TELLIN’ YA!!”

Jake’s fervent screaming continued on as I left, fearing physical contact with him or any other item in the godforsaken place. While adjusting my rear-view mirror on the way out of the parking lot, I caught a glimpse of Jake dejectedly smoking a cigarette by the front door. I made a mental note to self that I could mark one more thing off the “bucket list”.

No bedroom chairs for me, buddy.


Truckers wives and spouses – the silent voices of the industry

There are a lot of voices in the industry, some of which we’d like to hear less from and others we don’t hear enough from. The support system and backbone for over-the-road truckers often gets forgotten, because few realize it’s sometimes harder to stay home and take care of things than it is to leave and be away.

The marketing gurus of trucking are missing a vital section of their target audience by bypassing the spouses. Just because the wife or husband isn’t on the truck, doesn’t mean they don’t have input on purchases made regarding it. If my own experience serves me correctly, I’d venture to say a great deal of purchases are actually made by the spouse. I know George will often see something he would like to have, or needs, and I’m the one who does the research and ordering, because I’m the support system.

Not everyone has (or sees) the benefit of having a support system, but for those who do, they provide an invaluable service. Running your life from the road poses unique challenges, and attempting to run your life on the road and your life at home in tandem can be overwhelming, especially for those with children or aging parents who need assistance.

There’s no official “Drivers’ Spouse Appreciation Week,” and rarely do we hear stories of the support they provide, so I’m going to take a quick minute to thank all the trucker’s wives, husbands and families for the job they do. It ain’t easy, and it’s important to understand you’re not alone, you’re appreciated, and there are others who face the same challenges you do every day. Hats off to the support systems – THANK YOU FOR WHAT YOU DO.


Change starts with one step, and all that jazz

“Operation Positive Press” has begun.

Okay, so admittedly it’s not CNN, but the Van Horn Advocate is a real newspaper and it ran a positive trucking story on the front page, so right now, they’re the best newspaper ever in the history of newspapers, as far as I’m concerned.

It’s a start. It’s a beginning to a wave of stories we as an industry can generate and bombard mainstream news with. There are ten good stories to every one bad one they run, and it’s up to us to promote them. It’s pretty obvious no one is going to do it for us. Even the Van Horn Advocate needed someone to highlight it for them – they didn’t send a reporter out for the story. Rather, it was presented to them and the editor liked it and ran it.

And that’s how positive press for the trucking industry goes. It has to basically be crammed down the throat of the general public, because reporters and journalists who are unaffiliated don’t go sniffing around unless there’s death and destruction involved.

I’m tired of hearing the naysayers who claim we’ll never get anyone to listen to positive stories about the industry. Of course we won’t, if we decide to lay down and die. No one hears anything if you don’t say it. If you can’t think of anything nice to say about the industry, then play Thumper and keep it shut until you can, or go somewhere else where you’ll be happier. Life is too short to be miserable. Picking on me and the other people who are at least attempting to offer a more positive light doesn’t make anything better. If you don’t like it, don’t participate, it’s pretty dang simple.

That being said, I know there are people working hard to make this industry better. There are people who really care enough to make a difference, and I believe positive changes can be achieved. Go make good stories for us, get the word out.

2015 is the Year of the Trucker, if you’d forgotten.


The best slap I ever got

I thanked my Mom for having the sense to slap my face off after I called her a “bitch” when I was 14 years old. I felt compelled to do something similar after watching a particularly surly teenager talk to her mom like crap in line at a Taco Bell in West Virginia. This was shortly after viewing a Dr. Phil segment on “Mean Girls,” which had already reminded me of my good fortune.

“Oh my God, Mom, you are so stupid. I’ll just order it. Gah!”

My own instincts kicked in, and I had to restrain myself from slapping her face off for calling her Mom stupid. I was immediately transported back to my own life-altering experience when I was a surly teenager myself.

Mom was driving us to the pound in her beat-up Delta 88 (a car that is roughly the size of a Cessna) to drop off a stray cat I had found. I was pissed she wouldn’t let me keep it. I was being a selfish kid and didn’t take into consideration we lived in a place that didn’t allow pets. I just thought she was trying to impede my personal happiness.

“You’re just being a bitch.”

You know how time seems to stand still for a brief second when you’re involved in a horrible accident? My mother drew her hand back so fast it sucked all the air out of the car, and when her open palm connected with my defiant little face, the sound was deafening. My younger brother, who was sitting in the backseat, immediately burst into tears. She hit me so hard my brother cried. I have literally been hit so hard my brother cried, and I’m thankful for it.

Don’t get me wrong, it took years for me to realize she did me a great service in ringing my bell. And I assure you, I have never had the guts to even think my mom was a bitch while standing within arm’s length of her since then.

West Virginia Taco Bell mom wasn’t as nice to her kid. She took the abuse and let the girl order her own food – which she should have been doing anyway — without making a scene about it. You can only infer that she’ll take the same abuse from her kids, because no one ever taught her to be respectful or suffer the wrath, which eventually morphs into learning to be respectful because it’s the right thing to do and how people are supposed to act.

I appreciate my Mom. She never used, “What in heavens name is wrong with you?” as a rhetorical question. When I screwed up she expected an answer, and she expected it immediately after punctuating the question with, “Do you hear me?” I heard those two questions more than I’d like to admit, but as I got older, I heard them less and less, and it’s been many years since she looked at me like I had three heads and a tail and asked me what in heavens name was wrong with me. I consider that to be the mark of effective parenting. Thanks again, mom.


The eye (brows) have it

The mystery of George’s uncanny ability to show up at the most opportune times has been solved. He finally let me in on the secret.

We were right outside Pittsburgh, and had stopped for fuel. I was milling around the snack section of the store, while George gathered the things he needed from the truck side. There were a couple of guys perusing the snacks, speaking Spanish to one another, and I usually ignore this, but I’ve been studying Spanish lately, so I listened in to see if I could follow along.

I’ve mentioned before that it’s dangerous to listen in on conversations, and if you intend to do so, you should be prepared for what you hear. I should have followed my own advice and walked away when I caught on to enough of what they were saying to understand it was vulgar and directed entirely toward me. About the time I decided to “accidentally” kick the snot out of one of them, George magically shows up at my elbow, gives them a look that would silence anyone, and leads me away.

“How do you do that?”

“What?”

“You know what I’m talking about. You always show up about one second before I go off. What kind of Jedi trick is that?”

“It’s not a Jedi trick. I watch you. When you’re out of the truck I have my eyes on you the whole time.”

“That’s not creepy at all, stalker.”

“I’m not stalking you. I watch your eyebrows. If the left one shoots up, you’re mildly annoyed about something, but if they both jump up, I know I better get to you quick.”

“I’m somewhat amazed and a little disappointed you’re not actually a Jedi.”

“I didn’t say I wasn’t a Jedi, I said it wasn’t a Jedi trick.”

The force is strong with this one. So two lessons learned. I have very expressive eyebrows and my Spanish isn’t as bad as I thought it was. I should probably add that you shouldn’t get too comfortable talking trash about someone in a language you assume they don’t understand, because you never know when there’s a Jedi around.


Normal called…Not really

“Knit-Knot Tree,” US 68, Yellow Springs, Ohio
I have a good friend who went out on the truck with her boyfriend as a rider for the first time last weekend. I got a steady stream of “WTF?” texts – she quickly reminded me that there’s really no “normal” on the road.

“Quick question on shower – drying hair in there cool? I don’t mind walking out with no makeup, but wet hair? What’s normal?”

“Well, in some places, it’s normal to carry a skunk around in your purse, so I’d suggest you go with whatever you’re comfortable with. I try to be done with everything and out of the shower in 45 minutes, but if there’s a lot of people waiting, I’m in and out – wet hair and no skunk.”

“???skunk…I’ll ask later.”

And so it went for four days, she being amazed and me being reminded that life on the road is pretty incredible. It stopped being foreign and weird when I stopped trying to understand why a giant, bald trucker with the hairiest arms and legs I’ve ever seen would choose to step out of the truck in his prettiest Sunday-go-to-meeting dress, or why they knit sweaters for the trees in Yellow Springs, Ohio. Who the heck knows? You’ll drive yourself crazy trying to understand, it’s best just to take it all in for a minute and go on down to the next stop. Knit knot tree, US 68, Yellow Springs, Ohio

Life on the road is a colorful quilt of people, places and experiences. Everything is different from inside the cab of a big truck, and it’s completely amazing how hard it is on the body to ride in one all day.

“Day 2, baby! And sweet mother of all who sit behind a desk, my arms, legs, and back are killing me. A handful of Aleve and a cup of coffee and I should be good to go.”

She caught on quick.

“It’s cold and he keeps sweating through his shirts/jackets.”

Truckers work hard. (Her trucker is a flatbedder – they really do work hard.)

“My attitude of ‘he’s just driving’ is gone.”

Mine too.

It’s not Smokey and the Bandit out there, it’s not fun and games, it’s a difficult profession with a lot of nice perks – travel, seeing the country from the ground, meeting people in truck stop parking lots who think they’re Jesus. You know, stuff you’d never run into being a WalMart greeter in Albuquerque, N.M… OK, scratch the Jesus part, but the travel is great – especially if you don’t have to do the driving. I’d strongly suggest anyone who has the opportunity to ride along for a few days do so. You might like it, and you might hate it, but I can assure you, you’ll never forget it.


Armchair experts abound

Ever notice how someone is an expert about something they don’t have to do? It’s pretty amazing how many people instantly become doctors, lawyers, mechanics and plumbers when they’re not physically involved in the project.

I’m reminded of this as I listen to George on the phone with a shipper, trying to explain why there’s no possible way to enter a delivery site from the directions provided.

“Man, I don’t care what Google Maps is telling you, that road has been closed for a year and there’s no way in from the North side. I’m circling around and coming in from the South.”

Believe it or not (and you probably believe it) the doofus on the other end of the conversation continued to argue, while George passed the road that had been closed for a year and circled around to the South, where he found the entrance with no problem.

It’s easy to tell people how to do a job you don’t have to do. The FMCSA happens to be a perfect example of this phenomenon.

Early on, before trucking or nursing, George and I had a landscaping business. We also did tree work, which happens to be a skill Mr. Parker is fantastic at. He has an insane ability to understand geometry and spacial distance and can drop a tree within inches of where he says it’s going to fall, every single time. We were at a job in a pretty ritzy neighborhood, and had been called to take down a couple of little pine trees. The customer was one of those who wouldn’t just go away and let us do our job. He had to follow George around and tell him how to cut down the trees without maiming his $3,000 mailbox. I’ve mentioned before that George is a patient man, and instead of telling Daddy Warbucks with the $3,000 mailbox to hush up and go away, he walked around the tree a couple of times and started the chainsaw.

Mr. Know-It-All freaked out.

“Wait a minute! You’re not going to rope it off?”

“Don’t need to.”

“You know that’s a $3,000 mailbox directly underneath the tree, right?”

“You mentioned that.”

“I hope you have insurance.”

“I do. Won’t need it.”

He made his cut, the tree fell exactly where he said it was going to, and the $3,000 mailbox lives on.

And the moral of the story is – it’s great to know things, but knowing how to do things is a completely different animal, and it’s probably a good idea to know how to do something before you tell someone else how to do it.

It doesn’t matter what the job title is, having someone with direct personal experience is always better than someone who is “book smart” on the task at hand. Let’s remember that as we have the opportunity to nominate people for the Entry Level Driver Training Advisory Committee. Maybe, just maybe, we can get actual drivers with real road experience to help establish proper training and education standards for the industry. Who better to do the job?


Excuse me while I use my vernacular…

We spent the holidays surrounded by nontrucking people – which is unusual because we’re usually hanging out with at least one other person who has something to do with the trucking industry. It was wonderful to be with friends and family, but it really made me realize just how completely ingrained the lifestyle has become for us.

You never realize how the vernacular sneaks into your personal speech patterns until you’re around other people who have no idea what you’re talking about. This is doubly bad for George and I, because we’ve been together so long, and there are so many inside jokes between us, it’s sometimes hard to follow along anyway. Couple that with a sprinkling of CB talk, and unaffiliated people sometimes stare at us like we have three heads.

I got in trouble with my Momma because she thought I was talking ugly when I mentioned the lid on her jar of cranberry sauce was on there “tighter than a Russian track suit.”

“I don’t know what that means, dear, but it sounds awful. Don’t say that.”

Sorry, Momma.

I felt the need to explain to her it was in reference to some of the Russian drivers who prefer to wear their shiny track suits three sizes too small, but I realized until she’d been to a truck stop in Spokane, she’d never understand.

I also caused the receptionist at the doctor’s office extra work by telling her I had a copy on the information she was giving me. I was completely confused when she disappeared and returned with another physical copy of all the paperwork we just went over.

“What’s this?”

“It’s the copy you asked for.” “Oh no. I’m sorry, I already have all of this – I meant I understood what you were saying when I said I had a copy on it.”

She nodded her head and gave me the “I’m very busy and you’re annoying” smile and I left quietly, while once again apologizing for speaking in tongues.

It’ll be nice to be back on the road.