It's Vacation Time!

Just a heads up, dear readers, that I will be roughing it in a quaint resort town outside Bend, Oregon for the next two weeks. I'm taking my trusty laptop with me, but I have no idea if I'll be able to access the Interwebs, so my posts may be a tad sporadic. I'm confident you'll be able to manage without me.

Reason 242

Trip planning. The past week I have found myself ankle deep in guidebooks, maps spread out on the table and a browser history jam-packed with tourism sites. This can only mean one thing - I'm about to head out onto the open road, my mama strapped into the passenger seat, for a two-week vacation in lovely central Oregon. I'm not much for boasting, but when it comes to designing the perfect itinerary, I kick some serious arse. I love to research future destinations, discovering quirky shops off the beaten path, not-to-be-missed tours, and restaurants only the locals know about. Before you start thinking I'm Clark Griswald in a drill sergeant's clothing, let me assure you, Jason, that despite planning out various adventures to embark on each day, I am perfectly content to toss the schedule out the window if something unexpected pops up or my travel companions and I desperately need to recharge poolside with a stack of trashy novels and a couple of mixed drinks. My meltdown in NYC after college graduation is prrof of that. Since I'm sure, Jason, the two of us will travel together once or twice over the course of our friendship, feel free to place trip planning responsibilities on my capable shoulders. If we're really lucky, maybe I'll stumble upon a brochure for a hootenanny in the country being thrown by seven siblings who'll serenade us with cowboy campfire songs while we chow down on barbeque ribs and homemade cornbread. Now, that was a memorable vacation moment.

Reason 241

Weddings. I was not one of those little girls who attached pillow cases to her head while walking slowly down the hall, humming Pachabel's Canon and dreaming of a future commitment ceremony in a flower-filled church. The first wedding I remember attending was a simple affair at the city courthouse between my father and stepmom, and every subsequent celebration I've attended of brides and grooms professing their undying love for one another hasn't convinced me that weddings are a worthwhile use of my time. It's not that I don't love the friends and family members who are getting married; I certainly want them to be happy and enjoy this once in a lifetime event (snicker, snicker). I'm just not a fan of getting all gussied up to eat some subpar meal while making small talk with strangers and then listening to a DJ with questionable musical tastes encourage everyone to get out of their seats for a rousing rendition of YMCA. I try to graciously turn down most of the wedding invites I receive so others don't have to put up with my negative Nelly alter ego, but I couldn't bring myself to skip out on my friend Emily's big day, which happens to be August 14. She has excellent taste, a wacky sense of humor, and never takes anything too seriously, so I'm desperately hoping the whole affair will be light on ceremony and heavy on fun. The one thing that would cement my commitment to her huge commitment is a handsome date on my arm who can make me laugh and dance circles around my coworkers. Would you happen to be free on the 14th, Jason? I'm sure you could find a cheap, last-minute ticket to Seattle. I won't be able to pick you up from the airport as previously promised because I'll be driving back from central Oregon that day, but I can offer you free food and booze, a beautiful Seattle skyline, and some memorable conversations with the loveable whackjobs I call my colleagues. You'll also walk in with a lady on your arm who cleans up pretty nicely when she puts forth a little effort (I'll even shave my legs). I bought a new dress the other day and look pretty dang hot in it if I do say so myself. So, let me know if you feel like escaping the Hollywood machine for awhile to hobnob with the moderately paid as we raise a glass to the future of Emily and Chris. If you wear a suit I'll even attach your name to the gift. I bet your last wedding date wasn't so generous.

Reason 240

Lifelong learning. This morning after I read a few sections of the newspaper, watched Obama make his very first presidential morning talk show appearance, and then did some stimulating professional development around adolescent literacy (party at my house!), I realized that no matter how old I get (and I'm getting up there), I will always be a student. Whether in school or not, my brain is constantly trying to soak up new information, enouraging me to reflect on the crazy world around me and my place in it. Sure, I stay abreast of current events by skimming articles in the Seattle Times, but, despite being a reading teacher, I'll be the first to admit that I find informational text extremely boring and would much rather get my news from Jon Stewart and his gang of pundits. Unlike you, Jason, who seems to be able to teach himself new skills like piano-playing and puppeteering through a hybrid of monk-like concentration and osmosis, I go where the action is.When it comes to learning I am all about taking classes and, boy, have I taken some doozies over the years. Arts and crafts (with emphasis on the craft portion of that duo) has always been appealing to me and since middle school I have paid people good money to teach me how to sew an extremely hideous black and white polka dotted outfit, knit ridiculously long scarves, crochet an endless supply of potholders, stamp and emboss homemade stationary, bedazzle album pages with a money-sucking pasttime called scrapbooking, and, my personal favorite, dye my own reeds to weave baskets (not underwater, sadly). I have also learned (and then promptly forgotten) basic American Sign Language, the nuts and bolts of independent filmmaking, and how to get up enough courage to sing in front of complete strangers, not to mention all of the workshops I have taken to stay current in my profession. Next month I am taking a rustic bread baking and ice cream making class (not at the same time), and a few days ago I was schooled by Inga Ingenue, a local burlesque dancer, in the art of teasing an audience with fluffy boas and silky, elbow length gloves. Huh, when it comes to expanding my intellectual horizons, I guess I'm a bit of a whore. Anyway, I am almost always up for new learning experiences, Jason, so if you have a yen for yo-yo tricks or a desire for divination, you can count on me to dig up a class that caters to your needs and then sign the both of us up for it. Life is short and we might as well learn all we can while we're here, especially if it involves a little bumping and grinding in heels and glittery accessories.

Reason 239

My brother. Like you, I have an older brother, so when it comes to understanding what it's like to be the second born, I can empathize. I bet your mother didn't finish your baby book, either. My brother is four years older than me and happens to be celebrating a birthday today, making him practically ancient. Despite the age difference, I think you and my bro would get along quite well (you know, in case I ever ditch you at some family function and you have to fend for yourself). Both of you are giants among men, with him standing two inches taller than you at 6'6" and, incidentally, you both played basketball growing up because of your freakishly long limbs. As far as I know he was never crowned Slam Dunk Champion of the World (or whatever honor you received in high school), so at least you can lord that over him. I'm fairly certain you both wear the same size shoe, so if you happen to lose your favorite Puma while traipsing through a northwest fire swamp or something, he could fork over a pair of his kicks so you wouldn't be limping about like a deranged lunatic with one naked foot. Other similarities include wicked senses of humor, your taste in music, and work ethic; my brother is one of the hardest working guys I know and will do anything to support his family. Ok, that's enough gushing. I'm getting a little sick to my stomach from all that praise. Just to balance things out, I'll also fill you in on some acts of stupidity he's performed over the years. When I was in elementary school he locked me out of the house while my parents were gone, causing me to go into hysterics and causing him to get into big trouble (a definite perk of being the little sister was ratting him out). In high school he drove his car through the wall that separated our garage from the family room, claiming the sun had been in his eyes or some such nonsense. After college he was MIA for a year, which drove my mother crazy with worry (and convinced her to change the locks on our house). Turns out he was living on the beach in Hawaii. Um, a postcard would have been appreciated. Alright, I guess that's enough airing of dirty laundry. At least now you two will have some interesting stories to discuss if you ever meet. Please tell your brother I say hello, Jason. I'm going to go wish mine a very happy birthday.

Reason 238

Protection. No, I'm not referring to the kind of protection that can save your naughty bits from developing funky-colored pustules (although I'm happy to give you STI information, if needed, Jason). Rather, I am talking about defeating the sun's cancerous rays from baking our bodies until we resemble Sebastian, that adorable crab from The Little Mermaid. I have been extremely fair-skinned since I shot forth from my mother's loins and practically turn tomato red if I dare set foot outside in sunny weather without coating myself in a layer of SPF 30. I guess I can thank my pasty English ancestors for that (at least my teeth turned out all right). Almost every vacation I've taken to a tropical location is connected to the memory of a heinous sunburn that incapacitated me for days on end and drove my friends and family insane because they had to listen to my cries of agony as I moved even the slightest inch. In Acapulco it was my adorable little feet; Hawaii thought my back could use some extra vitamin D; and in central Oregon (yeah, I know that isn't exactly topical - but it's still hot as Hades) I burned the backs of my legs so badly that for at least three years afterward I had a line on my thighs where my shorts ended. This summer I have already endangered my face, which is now peeling in a lovely manner, my scalp, and the tops of my knees. You'd think that after all of my sun-related calamities I would be smart enough to bathe in sunscreen each morning during those ten hot days Seattle experiences each year. Well, apparently my stubborness beats out my intelligence since I haven't seemed to learn my lesson yet. I'm hoping, Jason, that whenever we're hanging out in the sun you will gently remind me to put on some protection, especially on the tops of my ears and over my tattoos (gotta' preserve that investment!). I may roll my eyes at you in annoyance, but inside I will be doing a happy dance knowing that you care about my skin's well-being. I'm not sure what your heritage is, but if you happen to avoid that blazing ball of gas in the sky the way Lindsay Lohan avoids responsibility, I will be more than happy to slather your back with lotion. I will not, however, put the lotion in the basket. Sicko.

Reason 237

Old-fashioned family fun. Sure, Pasadena has its swanky Rose Parade and Hollywood hosts a funky Christmas pcavalcade each year, but is there a city near you, Jason, that hosts a soiree where you can bear witness to preschoolers on trikes tearing up the asphalt? Well, look no further, my friend. Yesterday I literally stepped out my front door to find myself on the sidelines of my city's 25th annual River Days parade, a celebration of every small business, Boy Scout troop, and church in the area, with almost all participants decked out in either red, white and blue or rubber duck accoutrements (we have a thing for ducks, apparently), tossing cheap candy out to the crowd. One of the city council members even shouted out my name when she passed by, causing several sidewalk-sitters to turn and wave hello, making me feel like a bit of a celebrity. Once my family soaked up our fill of the small town procession, we headed off to the hokey arts and crafts market, watched partially clothed tots dance gleefully in the spray from the firefighters' hose, and passed judgement on the quilts artfully displayed in the library. The whole affair was so charming I almost expected to see Opie waltzing through the sun-kissed masses with a fishing pull cocked jauntily on his shoulder. If you ever want a taste of small town life, Jason, just say the word. I'm sure my brother would make room on the sidewalk for your bum so you could get your fill of grown men dressed like pirates and the rockin' sounds of the Sounders marching band (imported from Seattle). Any candy you catch automatically gets handed over to the nieces, though. It would be such a shame to ruin a Rockwell-esque moment with a tantrum from a sugar-deprived toddler. Besides, you'll want to make sure there's room in your belly for the funnel cake being dished out at the nearby park. Nothing says old-timey fun like a deep fried, powder-covered heart attack on a plate, I always say.