please change the channel

I began this yesterday while I was coming home from Iowa:

Thanks to Pat's laptop, I can sew an entry in the car as my mom navigates through Iowa's waving fields of corn back to Minnesota (if you can keep a secret, I never notice when we pass the border from Iowa into southern Minnesota -- it's just that Iowa seems as though it's in a glass box somehow cut off from the flow of time). Before I left, I told a few people I was going to Iowa for Thanksgiving; my mom grew up Iowa and her half of the family is still strewn around there. Once people learned this they hesitated -- "Parts of Iowa are beautiful," they replied after a pause. If my parents drove in lazy circles around Iowa's countryside instead of following the goat paths back to Minnesota, I wouldn't know. The gorgeous scenery people tell me exists but never describe must be like blessings in disguise. It's been playing a fifteen-year game of hide-and-seek.

We drive through the rural regions of Iowa, and there's about a mile and a half or so of naked corn fields peppered with bails of hay between every house, and next to every house is a humble cluster of trees, a few grain silos, a stocky shed, and a barn that's like cheesecloth and is in dire need of fresh paint. After the first hour of the trip my head rests against the window and my eyes follow the power lines.

On Wednesday we made the four-hour journey to my aunt and uncle's. Pat came with -- he had nowhere to go, and I almost wet my pants in excitement over having a playmate. Instead of stopping at the halfway point and having lunch at Dairy Queen as we do most years, we ate at Noodles & Company and stopped by two gas stations to empty ourselves and purchase armfuls of candy and salted goods. We pulled into my aunt and uncle's driveway around 5 p.m., leaving our luggage for retrieval later. Pat was introduced to my 65-year-old aunt, a woman who was once vibrant and childlike but now lives under a slew of blankets in a recliner in front of the television. Pat was disappointed when I told him that we would be staying overnight at their house instead of checking into a hotel.

That night, my mom erupted into muffled giggles in her sleep at 1 a.m., shrieked an hour later, and at 4 a.m. began to snore uncontrollably. I threw off my comforter, easing myself off the floor and stretching my sore muscles. Teetering on the brink of tears, I padded into the kitchen and ate a banana, noting the time on the microwave clock. By the time I slipped back into the guest bedroom the symphony of snores had not yet concluded, so I carried my sleeping bag and pillow into the bathroom and slept in the doorway.

On Thursday I woke up Pat with a kiss, and once he had stretched the fatigue from his crumpled form we filed into the kitchen to make ourselves breakfast. My uncle shops for groceries at a store that doesn't sell name-brand products, and keeps food well past their expiration dates. He hospitably offers us flat pop and stale potato chips. Seemingly unaware of the little dates on food containers printed for the benefit of consumers, I wonder if my uncle glances at those numbers and shakes his head with a smirk, musing over the unexplainable affinity businesses have for random dates in the future. Usually I have imitation cereal for breakfast (it has a higher shelf-life), but Pat is lactose intolerant and if he has to suffer stomaching food no longer fit for human consumption, so will I.

We found a box with three pancakes and two sausage links and decided to share it. While it was in the microwave we hunted for maple syrup and bread. We found unopened syrup that had expired in January in 2001, and after an extensive search we came across a loaf of bread in the refrigerator that had expired in July. In addition to our communal TV breakfast, we each had two pieces of peanut butter toast (the peanut butter had expired around the same time as the bread) and a small glass of mildly sour orange juice. Pat lost his appetite before he could finish his meal.

I brushed my teeth thoroughly afterwards and gathered my things so I could take a shower. The shower curtains in the guest bathroom are a sensual shade of red, so while I was shaving I thought my opposite leg was sopping wet with blood.

It takes two hours to drive to where Thanksgiving is held annually. I saw two signs that I'm sure were placed alongside the road solely for the purpose of amusing anyone unfortunate enough to stray so far away from society:

Lost Nation

12 Miles

Yeah, no fucking joke.

Grand Mound

I couldn't decide whether this was a town or the name of the said mound -- later it was confirmed that it was indeed a town. I like to fantasize that in a metropolis such as Grand Mound, children are taught that there are no other cities or countries so as not to upset the elderly.

Anyway, Pat apparently had fun wrestling with a cousin of mine who I'm guessing is six or so. We tried in vain to find some of the stray cats that find shelter in a shed outside, briefly used the computer, shuffled through century-old books, and watched football.

We left around 8 p.m., and in an effort to keep myself awake I counted the little reflectors that lined the side of the road. I drifted in and out of counting, but in an hour I counted somewhere within the vicinity of 1,535 of them. Pat peered out the window with glossy eyes and eventually slipped into slumber and lolled forward.

We returned to my aunt and uncle's at 10 p.m., washed up, and crawled into bed. My dad woke me up at 3 a.m. with intermittent snores and little sighs, so, sneering in contempt, I once again gathered my sleeping bag and pillow and dragged them into the living room so I could sleep on the floor next to Pat on his hideaway bed.

My dad and uncle went shopping at Menards and Office Max the next morning, and on the way home my dad stopped by McDonald's and purchased food for my mom, Pat, and me. Before we left Pat and I walked to a nearby park, climbed to the top of a slide and slid down, and took turns spinning each other on the merry-go-round. I had to wrap my body around the handle bars so as not to fall off, whereas my sandals lessened my traction and I couldn't spin Pat at such a high velocity. Nevertheless, it was a breath of fresh air from my aunt, who was earlier seen gritting her teeth and moaning as she struggled to open a cough drop. Pat and my mom stifled their amusement while I was amazed my aunt had not yet committed suicide with one of her unused physical therapy devices.

I was glad to leave. My aunt is like a commercial for a starving children in Africa that no one wants to see.