The big secret. . .

For the past few weeks, I barely talked to my family. I dodged their calls, didn't pick up the phone to call them, and did everything I could to keep big-mouth-can't-tell-a-lie Monica away from them. Why? Because I was planning a stealthy ninja-like trip back to the Big O under the cover of darkness and I couldn't wait to show up on their doorsteps to say "Hi" in a casual manner.

And I did it. It was awesome. When Mom answered the door, she jumped a foot and said "Oh my God!". When I surprised KB at work with flowers, she just kept saying "What are you DOING here?" When I surprised Erika at home with some Starbucks, she said the same thing: "What are you DOING here?" Honestly: I was there to hold babies, and hold babies I did for three glorious days. It was awesome.

And the awesomeness didn't stop at my time with my family. Oh no, it basically started when I kissed my husband and kids goodbye and loaded up on the Amtrak to leave Denver. If, of course, by "Awesome" you mean "bizarre journal-worthy stories."

When I got on the train, I picked a seat at the top of the stairs. Considering the number of stops between Denver and Omaha (5) and the number of times people use those stairs (a billion, since the bathrooms are at the bottom), it was a mistake. And then I did something horrible. When the conductor said we had a full train and we should put our belongings to the side and allow people to sit with us, I did it.

Within moments, a young man in a nondescript black leather jacket and a classically-styled hat sat down next to me. He seemed nice enough. No warning bells went off in my head for a full thirty seconds. Then I heard the sound of a beer can cracking open. And then he started talking to me. First, I got his sob story. Headed back to Iowa, tail between his legs, he'd been unemployed in Denver for awhile and got kicked out of the band. I stared at my knitting and wondered how long I had until he passed out. I was seated next to THAT GUY you hear on the plane or train and always thank the lord that you aren't the poor schmuck sitting next to him.

And then he handed me his cell phone. Someone here wants to talk to you he said into the phone, before thrusting it in my direction. Apparently, it was his father, whose hobby it was to read star charts. He asked my birthdate, which, like some sort of idiot, I provided. He went on to tell me I was certainly in some sort of nurturing career like nursing, my parents were divorced, and I had a deeply conflicted relationship with my overbearing and cruel stepfather. His magic 8 ball failed him and I impatiently told him as much before tossing the phone back to my increasingly bizarre seat partner.

And then it started to get weird. As I suspected, all of his drinking caught up with him and my seatmate soon began to pass out. Where would he land? In my lap, of course. At which point any normal human being would blubber out apologies and maybe even get up and move, but no, not THAT GUY. That guy said "I'm just going to lay here, ok?" Um. No, not OK.

I put away my knitting and shut out the light, putting on my iPod, pulling my hoodie up, and covering up with a blanket to clearly indicate that I was trying to sleep. And for the next 6 hours, THAT GUY would randomly make loud phone calls (despite being told several times by the conductor not to), speak to me without looking at me, and then randomly elbow me when I wasn't answering. I felt like I was in some sort of cruel science experiment.

My favorite of THAT GUY's late night phone calls came at 3 a.m. when he decided to call Verizon to complain that he couldn't get ahold of Angela in Germany. Despite my non-affiliation with THAT GUY, I was deeply embarrassed to share a row with him in case anyone on the train would mistake me for THAT GUY'S GIRL or THAT GUY'S FRIEND or even THAT GUY'S TRAVELLING COMPATRIOT. I felt like wearing a sign that said "SAVE ME FROM THAT GUY."