Reason 249

Peeing. Originally this post was going to shed some light on my nearly supernatural ability to delay my need to use the nearest toilet for hours on end, which is quite handy during long flights and roadtrips like the one I embarked on last week. Unfortunately, I've discovered my bladder isn't as voluminous as I once believed because ever since I left home I've needed to pee like a race horse every two hours or so. Months ago on one of her health-themed shows Oprah claimed a healthy person urinates about once an hour, and since Oprah is the closest thing we have to a real, live deity in America, I don't feel too bad about dropping my pants so often. Since I've lost about twenty pounds in the last few months the only reasonable explanation for the sudden change in the frequency with which nature is calling is that my bladder has shrunk right along with the rest of me. My mother snorted at this highly scientific theory, but I can honestly see no holes in my water-tight (or rather, urine-tight, as the case may be) hypothesis. So, Jason, I cannot entice you into lifelong friendship with a claim of never interrupting a super-fun moment by searching for a loo. I can, however, point out that when I do need to empty my shrunken bladder I am content to do so just about anywhere. Sketchy gas station bathrooms and fetid outhouses don't dissuade me from unzipping and letting loose. Rest stop stall with no door? I'll unbutton my pants without hesitation. In fact, my favorite place to cop a squat may just be the great outdoors. Perhaps it's the murky cavegirl DNA in me, but peeing in the middle of the woods (or atop a mountain, which I did today) makes me quite happy. And, as an added bonus, I don't waste toilet paper (Sheryl Crow would be proud) or need to wash my hands with gross liquid soap afterward. You should be so lucky to call such a low maintenance, eco-friendly woman like me your friend, Jason.

Reason 248

Mustache appreciation. The other day while noshing on a pulled pork sandwich at a funky BBQ joint in Sisters, Oregon, my eye spied an autographed picture of Sam Elliott, a man known for his glorious facial hair as much as his acting chops. Seeing Mr. Elliott in all his black-and-white movie still glory reminded me of a radio interview you gave ages ago (thanks, YouTube!) in which you and the DJ's professed your appreciation for famous men and the equally famous hairy ctaerpillars perched above their upper lips. You're top three mustaches of all time belong to Tom Selleck (as Magnum P.I., of course), the aforementioned Sam Elliott, and the other famous mustached Sam - Mr. Shepard. Now, I agree that those men sport some amazing facial hair, but my third choice would definitely be Dastardly, the cartoon villain of "Dastardly and Muttley in Their Flying Machines" fame. Sure, his mustache is drawn on, but it is still a wonder to watch him twirl it menacingly between his gloved fingers. I bet Sam Shepard can't do that! Other folks who stake a claim in my mustache-loving heart include Charlie Chaplin and Adolf Hitler (the only redeemable thing about that monster). I'm sure there are others, but they don't come to mind at the moment. Our differences of opinion about legendary 'staches doesn't worry me, Jason, since I think disagreement between friends is a healthy thing. We should be able to engage in rousing debates about mundane topics like famous facial hair or toilet paper quality or the existence of yetis, secure in the knowledge that we do agree on important things, like the complete and total awesomeness of Disneyland. Besides, no matter what you say I will always be right - no need to argue about that.

Reason 247

Simplicity. Yesterday was my birthday, a lovely occasion for examining the past year, setting goals for the next, and appreciating all of the amazing people in my life. It also doesn't hurt to indulge in some stiff drinks and wickedly decadent chocolate dessert. Since turning thirty a few years ago I've realized that the older I get the less I care about gifts and parties, at least in relation to my own momentous birth - when it comes to other people's big days I am happy to go a little overboard. If you asked me what I wanted for my birthday I honestly couldn't rattle off a list of things purchased at a store, so you're off the hook, Jason. Nope, I'd much rather my birthday be a simple affair with me enjoying a much-needed massage, hitting a couple happy hours in Bend, and curling up in an oversized chair with a good book. Apparently, the adage that with age comes wisdom does hold true in my case, at least when it comes to keeping things simple and understanding people and experiences are 100 times more enriching than things. Of course, I won't turn my nose up at a thoughtful gift of new sneakers (Asics size 10), tickets to Disneyland, or my own gig as a writer for a hit TV show, but a few kind words from you, Jason, would be just as appreciated. Gee, I bet you can hardly wait to be my age so you can throw off the shackles of consumerism and be all Zen. That gives you three years to maintain your lifestyle of Bacchanalian excess - enjoy it while you can, youngin'.

Reason 246

Accident prone. I'm pretty sure no one has ever described me as graceful (well, maybe when I'm on the dance floor and my mojo's set to high). I constantly drop small objects, bump into furniture, and trip over invisible cracks in the sidewalk. In high school I managed to slip down a couple of stairs and sprain both my ankles, and one of the high points of my college career was falling up a set of stairs twice in one day and having another student, who had witnessed both events, question me about my motor skills. If someone followed me around with a video camera I bet I could rake in big bucks on "America's Funniest Videos" (by the way, why is that show still on?!). My body is covered in a parade of cuts, scrapes and bruises because of my clumsiness. I'm sure during the summer months when more of my skin is exposed to the general public there are strangers who think I'm a battered woman. At least, I'm going to assume that's the reason for all those pitying looks. Why, just this morning in the shower I noticed a purple and yellow bruise about the size of a tennis ball on my left knee. Absolutely no idea how I earned that particular badge of ambulatory obliviousness. There is a bright spot to all this pain and awkwardness, though. My lack of grace makes everyone around me look like Baryshnikov in comparison. People will be awed by your fluidity when we walk down the street together, Jason. Strangers will mistake you for an Olympic-level ice skater or internationally ranked ballroom dancer and gaze at me in wonder, stumped as to why you're spending time with a spastic accident-prone gal like me. All I ask in exchange for this adoration, Jason, is that you take a break from those gob-smacked fans to help me up off the ground or dislodge my foot from that pesky hole. Then you can return to gliding down the street, teen girls swooning as you pass.

Reason 245

Biking. Seattle is known as a very bike-friendly city full of trails and special lanes just for cyclists, so, even though I didn't learn how to ride a two-wheeler until the ripe old age of eight, I've always known about bicycle safety and etiquette. The village I am currently vacationing in boasts over 35 miles of bike paths, and since our unit comes equipped with two old-school coaster brake bikes, my mom and I start and end almost everyday here with a long ride. I tell you, Jason, singing showtunes while cruising in the early morning sunlight and spotting the occasional deer makes for moments of pure bliss. I bet you and I would be the talk of the town if we pedaled by a gaggle of golfers belting out "Sign" from Annie (with me singing Ms. Hannigan's part, naturally - my dream role). What isn't so happy-making are the dolts who swarm the trails en masse, either on foot or on bike, ignoring my shouts of "On your left!" until I get so frustrated (and close to them) that I scream out "You need to move or I will hit you with my bike!" Yeah, that actually happened yesterday. I also love the cyclists who believe they're above the rules and can ride on the wrong side of the path (we aren't in England, buddy), zip through tunnels instead of dismounting as the signs indicate, and stop in the middle of the trail, confused about which roundabout will return them to the comfort of their suite at the nearby swanky resort. Since my parents raised me right and I'm not a moron, I don't exhibit any of these thoughtless and dangerous behaviors. You can ride with me, Jason, secure in the knowledge that I will stay to the right, walk my bike when required, and even call out a friendly "hello" to those I pass. All bets are off if I see a big-eyed doe munching on grass, though. Adorable wildlife seems to make all rational thought dribble out of my head into a pool on the path's blacktop. Damn you, Bambi!

Reason 244

Technology. The morning after we arrived in our quaint vacation community, I fired up the old laptop, plugged in my modem (yep, an actual Clearwire modem - don't laugh), and found out I would be waiting an awfully long time if I ever wanted to access the internet from our condo. My signal was nonexistent. This revelation was actually quite liberating because it meant I wouldn't be a slave to my computer or this blog during two weeks of vacation. Sure, I couldn't look up local restaurants on Yelp or read inane status updates on Facebook, but that seemed like a small price to pay for freedom from technology that hypnotizes me into wasting precious minutes that could be devoted to reading actual books, sitting by the pool, and griping about our noisy upstairs neighbors. I swear they have thirteen children who are all hooked on meth and love to play DDR. I've never been enamored with or impressed by the latest and greatest in technology, so the thought of being stuck on the side of the information superhighway didn't depress me too much. Since my computer was out of commission I decided to embrace this Stone Age living by severing all ties with the wireless overlords and leaving my cell phone turned off for the majority of each day. Besides, most of the calls I receive are from my doting mother, who is currently sitting five feet away from me, so I was confident that I wouldn't be missing much. Today, the third day of my self-imposed exile from technology, became too much to bear, though, and I headed to the nearby library to use their public computers (yay for libraries!). Fingers twitching in anticipation, I double-clicked my way on-line...and then waited for several painful moments because the server was taking forever to load anything. Argh! I finally did manage to log into my email account, Facebook, and my lovely blog, but the computer was so turtle-like that it almost wasn't even worth it to drive over in 90 degree weather, suffering from back sweat and those unsightly marks sunglasses tend to leave on the bridge of my nose, when I could've been holed up in the much cooler condo with a bag of microwave popcorn and Oprah. When my mom found out I had gone on-line without digging up information on Crater Lake, a possible excursion while we're in Oregon, I decided to throw in the towel and find out how to log on to the Interwebs with the condo's server. So, now I am sitting on the front steps (apparently signal strength is as weak as Mel Gibson's self-control inside our room), typing away on my mom's laptop, once again a slave to technology and my little year-long experiment. Even though I now have all sorts of information at my fingertips I am going to try my darndest to leave this computer in its case, snug as a bug in a rug, unless it is absolutely imperative that I watch a video of a monkey sniffing its own butt or something. I know you adore all of your MAC products, Jason, but if you ever need to quit cold turkey for awhile so you can reconnect with actual human beings, I'll be there to support you. I will hide your iPhone if necessary and we can recklessly go out into the world with no GPS or movie times at our fingertips. Let's be brave together, my friend.

Reason 243

Festival fun. On our drive into the bowels of Oregon the other day we passed a sign touting the little town of Aumsville's annual Corn Festival, which got me thinking about all the incredible activities that could take place during what must be the high point of the year for folks in surrounding areas. I bet dollars to doughnuts a Corn Queen competition is held, pitting teenage girls with low self-esteem against one another to show off their corn-fed physiques in itty, bitty bathing suits while they twirl flaming cobs in the air, all for the glory of a gift certificate to the local hardware store and a tiara bedazzled with shellacked popcorn kernels. After the nail-biting wait to hear the pageant results, festival attendees probably gorge themselves on a myriad of corn-based food products like corn chips, corn tortillas, corn chowder, cornbread, corn flakes (I'm starting to feel like Bubba from Forrest Gump - I better stop), all of which can be washed down with a generous jar of moonshine (which, for the high class folks out there, may be made from corn mash). At the crafts booth you can snag a commemorative corncob pipe, which can then be enjoyed during the corn shucking contest and corny joke portion of the festival. Perhaps if the citizens of Aumsville are horror fans they can even hold a screening of The Children of the Corn; I bet the freaky kid who played Isaac would show up to sign some autographs if asked really nicely. I can even think of a certain lucrative corn-themed activity that might pull in gay men with lots of disposable income if Aumsville wants to show off just how liberal Portland's southern neighbors can be. I honestly have no idea what goes on at the real Corn Festival, but if it's anything like the one I've imagined, I would love to check it out with you, Jason. In fact, I am pretty much up for bizarre festivities any day of the year, so if you hear about some underground doughnut days or worshipping of the almighty almond, let me know and I'll be happy accompany you. I don't make any promises about refraining from heckling inbred girls who decide to degrade themselves on stage for a couple minutes in the spotlight and a sparkly sash, though. Call them scholarship programs all you want - this feminist ain't buying it.