Tim's idea of nirvana is to be at the helm of a powerful engine. Mine is to ride on that engine in first class. (Quit petting the cat - both hands on the wheel!)

We are officially on the road again. Headed to Crescent City, CA. Tim’s doing some locum tenens there. More on why in a future entry. For now:

Our first day out from Boulder provided a rather nostalgic look back at our meltdown cruise of June 2004 – our very first trip in our bus. This time, we actually did get an early start, as all our electronics were in working order, thanks to Frank at Eagle Sat. It also helped that it didn’t pour rain or hail. And, even better yet, the bus door didn’t fly open at 60 mph – three times – nearly sucking me out.

Passing by the Flying J in Rock Springs, WY (the highway still under construction, just as it had been the first day of that meltdown cruise. Since we went to the 49th state later on in our bus year, I just have to ask: How come it took less than eight months to complete the nearly fifteen-hundred-mile Alaska Highway, while this considerably less footage of interstate... ?) We saluted Western Wyoming Community College which gave us refuge that first, awful night. Fortunately, no pet peed in our bed out of terror (or anything else) this time.

West of Salt Lake City, we passed a motel where Tim pulled over on Day Two of our historic (or in my case, hysteric) meltdown cruise, when he let the brakes cool down after they nearly caught fire on the treacherous mountain passes. Today, more than three years later, he finally fessed up he hadn’t actually stopped back then because he wanted a donut.

This cell tower was on the Salt Flats to the west of SLC. Tim said they were attempting to "disguise" it into a work of art. Us both being shrinks, we agreed it screams of sexual repression. Sometimes a cigar really isn't just a cigar.

My fabulous website designer, Steve Bennett of AuthorBytes forwarded this article to me. It's full of exclamation and other silly points about how, even if a couple consists of polar opposites (like Tim and me), they can still enjoy vacationing together at certain resorts with spas, cooking classes and wine for her, but golf, fishing and beer for him.

How lovely for these mythical couples. For us, on the other hand…

Queen: Honey, let’s go to Cabo! I can take a conch cooking lesson [yeah, I know, WTF? But it’s in that stupid article], picnic with tame iguanas [ditto] and you can go deep sea fishing and work on your golf swing!

Consort: I don’t like fishing and I don’t have a golf swing.

Q: Well, I don’t like cooking and I hate bugs.

C: Iguanas aren’t bugs.

Q: Close enough.

C: So, why should we go to Cabo?

Q: What else will we do on vacation?

C: Live on the bus.

Q: That’s why we should go to Cabo.

As an aside, this does remind me that when we were in Death Valley during our bus year, we actually saw a woman taking her iguana for a hike: I stayed far away from that bug.

Alfred E. Newman has nothing on me.

Today, I had to venture out of the bus (I know you're shocked, but Tim wasn't home) to get something from the bay (since it relates to cat pee, I'll spare you the details).

Understand that when you open the bay doors, they don't just open, but sort of extend upward and swing out. Contrary to what you may think, in spite of my royal status, over the years I've opened them many times (three constitutes "many," right?) So, why I was unprepared for this, I have no idea. Anyway, the door smacked me in the mouth - hard. Hard enough to chip my front tooth. In my designer duds and fetching new grin, this Princess looks like Eva Gabor must have felt on Green Acres. (Oh, great. In addition to looking really weird, I've now totally dated myself. So, why not go for the gusto and debase myself even more? Fine. I'm such a vidiot, I can even tell you the name of little hamlet their farm was in. Ready? Hooterville. Yup.)

I found a dentist, the fabulous Dr. Gerber, to see me right away and he filed it. (He didn't even charge me. I guess he was star struck having royalty in his chair and all.) It's actually not so bad. I can say that now that it's after 5 pm. While I absolutely adhere to "it's always 5 o'clock somewhere," it's just a little harder to justify while we're on the west coast - although not today. (Today though, it's purely medicinal, of course.)

I'm such a klutz. I always have bruises all over my body I have no recollection of getting. With all my black and blue, I'm afraid people will think I'm a battered woman.

I'm not paranoid. Really. I'm not. It's just that, after so many disasters in this bus, so many times of nearly getting killed, not to mention terribly inconvenienced and potentially humiliated (the nudist RV park comes to mind), I really can't be blamed for feeling this rig has it in for me. Maybe it wants Tim all for it - or her - self. After what he said to me after surveying the damage (to his precious bus, not me), she can have him:

"You know, after you chipped your tooth, you didn't actually shut the cargo door. Instead, you forced the latch back down, so now it's bent. Next time make sure the cargo bay door is actually closed before you close the latch." As I've said before about my psychiatrist husband, "He gave at the office." His current retort to that brilliant observation?

"Well, this bus has over 200,000 miles on it, yet it's only when you interacted with them that anything's happened to the bay doors."

Like I said.

Today did remind me, however, of something a bit more compassionate Tim said to me on our trip (this, during a hike in Death Valley, when I became hysterical at the sight of a bug* so disgusting, I still don't know how it can stand itself): "I always say you should get out more, but maybe that's not such a good idea."

I'll drink to that!

*I had originally "mistyped" "bus" instead of "bug." Ya don't need to be a shrink to figure that one out.

The funny and wise Bella Stander sent me this Denver Post article about a Denver bank robbing couple who hitched their getaway car to their RV.

Lesson: If you're traveling by RV and planning a crime spree, maybe you should consider renting a car?

This is Morty's new favorite spot while we're moving - ie, snoozing on the "dog bed" up front, right between the driver's and buddy seats. (I wonder why Tim always exclaims, "Another cat picture! Oh, good! We just don't have enough of those.")

On our way to California, we stopped in Reno, NV, where Tim grew up, to visit his family. (Any Reno 911 fans out there? Tim loves his home city. I don’t think he really gets how the show makes fun of it. Or, maybe he’s just in denial. It’s been known to happen.) Since Tim was about to go to the Big House, we treated ourselves to a fabulous steak dinner at Harrah’s Steak House. We were chatting with our waiter, Tony, and discovered that (a ahem certain number of years later) he took over Tim’s boyhood paper route at the Reno Gazette.

I got treated to tons of uproarious biggest little city humor. You know, the kind that’s just so darn cute. (Fortunately, Harrah’s has quite the extensive wine cellar.)

“Didn’t you love trying to hit Mr. Krakowski’s cat when you threw the Sunday edition?” OK. Not really, but that might have been a wee bit more interesting, at least.

It sure is a small, small bus world, though.

Reno provided one more opportunity for nostalgia. On our way out of town, we stopped for gas at Baldini’s, the very same place during the start of our bus year, where the door finally jammed for good (after opening three times at 60 mph our very first day on the road, nearly sucking me out each time) and we had to call a locksmith to open it and save our pets from the sweltering 100 degree heat. He was supposed to stop by our RV park the next day to provide us with a more permanent fix, but never did show up. When I finally called his store, I was told that he had quit.

I guess seeing a grown psychiatrist cry was too much for any man.

When Tim and I traveled the Seward Highway south of Anchorage (to get to the Kenai Peninsula) during our bus year, we were struck by the moose warning signs. It seemed to us shrinks a rather perverse twist on the notion of constructive criticism, since rather than merely warning, they also announced how many of the beasts had been hit on Alaskan roads thus far in the year.

Fortunately, we were also not struck by a moose, as this Alaska State Trooper nearly was when one fell off a cliff.

This was actually the only moose we saw on Kenai - a cow and her baby.

(And, speaking of moose, see my Feb 1 entry to win a poopin' moose - and a copy of QUEEN OF THE ROAD, of course.)

Litpark posted a wonderfully funny blog entry about her basically (sorry Lit) being a lousy driver. I can relate, because well... I assume I am, too. I say "assume" since I always thought I was a decent enough driver. But since we live in a democracy, I suppose I have to go with the majority opinion here and I've not only heard from my husband often enough how bad I am behind the wheel, but an awful lot of strangers, as well. OK. They don't actually tell me so much as yell it at me. That's why I never have driven our bus. Oh, no. Instead, I'm the navagator (or, as Tim likes to call me, "Nagavator") which frankly, is almost as insane as having me drive.

I have no sense of direction and I can't read a map. So why does the Captain have me consult Rand on a regular basis? (Rand’s a little anal for my tastes, anyway. Reading all those little numbers along all the superfluous squiggly lines can be blinding.) Instead, once when he wanted me to figure out how far we were from a campground, I found the distance scale. Fifteen miles was about the size of a knuckle. Five knuckles later, I offered, quite satisfied with myself, “OK. Five times fifteen is seventy-five. But it’s really a little less than a knuckle length, so . . . we could be anywhere from forty to seventy-five miles away.” Tim rolled his eyes. Just then I spotted the “Mileage Between Cities” chart at the top of the page. Why hadn’t Rand made this more obvious? Like I was supposed to figure out that buried in all this map stuff was actual useful information. (Sometimes I think Rand is just showing off. No one likes a braggart, buster!)

“Oops!” I chuckled.

“How much more is it?” the Captain sighed.

“Actually, we’re only twenty-two miles away. Guess knuckles aren’t the best way to measure.”

“Apparently not yours.”

There was a total lunar eclipse two nights ago - outside, in real time and everything. It'll be the last one until 2010.

Tim and I watched it from the trailer park we're staying in. We also watched as all the other adults stared up at the sky along with us, while their kids stayed inside watching TV or playing video games. (It's easy to tell what people are up to in their homes if you live in a trailer park. Too easy in many cases. Don't ask.)

Yes, I know I tend to be a shut-in (or as we shut-ins prefer, the more politically correct term, "hermit"), and I will usually do just about anything to avoid the outdoors (I had once after all, when tired of craning my neck to view a meteor shower, announced, "I'm going inside to watch it on CNN"), but eclipses are kinda cool.

Only in an old fashioned, I'm-a-relic kinda way, I guess.

We're sprung from this hell hole!

We're leaving today after being parked for nearly three months while Tim worked in psych hospital. (Our longest ever in one spot and it had to be here? He couldn't find a nice little assignment in San Francisco? As even a local commented when I complained about the dearth of RV parks in this area, "Well, why would anyone want to visit Modesto?" Even Tim's coworkers at the hospital kept wondering, "You came to... Modesto?")

Lest you think I exaggerate, Forbes recently decreed Modesto "One Of the Top Ten Most Miserable Cities in America."

Of course, before leaving any place (even a miserable one), we must have some drama...

Our internet satellite (the thingy with an arm on top of our bus that points to the planet of the alien race plotting to take over the Earth, but is kind of enough to provide me with internet in the meantime) can be deployed as long as the wind is less than 70 mph. Last night, we were supposed to get gusts up to that much, so I reeled it in. (Sounds impressive? It is. I assure you I know which button to push without breaking a nail.) The park manager told me they’ve had trailers tip over in the past in these high winds and suggested we might want to move to a different, less exposed spot. Tim said no – he was in the middle of cooking dinner and it would take him an hour to unhook, rehook and get us settled. He explained we're extremely bottom heavy (don't worry, he'll be suitably punished for that - he has to sleep sometime) and besides, he just cranked the engine to recharge the bus battery, so our air bags were full. Air bags??? We’re going to rely on airbags???

We did survive the night upright, but I was quite cold. What else is new? I’m always cold (unless it's summer; then I’m too warm). Tim, on the other hand, seems to have no trouble whatsoever maintaining his body heat year-round. He can’t believe how I squander mine. (He says I'm lazy down to a cellular level.) Adding insult to injury, as I’m getting older, I almost never stay in bed all night. Gotta get up to have me a royal pee. Last night, Tim had to as well. Being the gentleman he is, he let me go first. I repaid his generosity by leaping back into bed, honing in on his heat signature like a glutton-guided missile. I giggled in delight, reveling in the warmth he'd so foolishly left behind for me to suck up. When he got back into bed, he insisted on retaking his spot.

“But, I don’t have heat on my side,” I protested. He replied, “I doubt you have a soul, either.”

Well, I guess we're not quite sprung, yet. As always, we planned to get an early start. And, as always, some disaster (other than my need for beauty sleep) got in the way. We hadn't quite figured in all the rain this area has gotten in the last three months. Our bus is stuck in the mud. We're waiting for the "wrecker" to get us out.

If someone had told me back when I was a perfectly content little Princess From The Island of Long that my coronation to Queen of the Long Narrow Aisle would involve "wreckers," "mud," "trailer parks," or for that matter, (oh, god) buses, I would have said, "Honey, you can keep the crown. I'll take the Crown Plaza, instead."

Here he comes. No internet in motion - I'll post from our next stop, Morro Bay.

If our bus makes it.

I noted in a previous post, "Psychiatry In Action," how "kitten on leash" is a time-tested chick attractant. Well, here's a time-tested guy one: "Tow truck." (Although, to be fair, they were a captive audience, since the entire operation blocked the only entrance/exit to the trailer park.)

Note Tim's role. He was oh so proud that Chad (of E-Towing) asked him to "mind my tow cable."

Ohhhhh. So that's what they're calling it these days.

Written from a truck stop near Winslow, AZ (it’s not as romantic as the Eagles’ song would have you believe, believe me).

We had our last In ‘n’ Out yesterday. In ‘n’ Out (for those of you sadly ignorant of the boisterous burgers) is a west coast thing. We’ve been visiting our dear friends, Jim and Lisa in Prescott, AZ (rhymes with “biscuit” we’ve been told… and told… and told). Lisa doesn’t eat beef (I’d make a snide remark that this makes no sense, since her reasoning has to do with the way the animals are treated, yet she does eat chicken. However, since I don’t eat pork or shellfish, even though I haven’t been kosher for years, I don’t really have a snarky - or sensible - leg to stand on, here). So, Tim and I snuck out for a quick lunch.

(Also note I have my burgers with cheese on them. This is known in Jewish circles as a “double whammy.” If I added bacon, I’d call it a “triple whammy” – if I survived the lightning bolt.)

Our experience was marred.

Since I’ve been doing low carb, I don’t eat hamburger buns. That also means I don’t get a shake or fries (unlike my gee, how-much-good-fortune-does-one-man-really-deserve-he's-also-married-to-me-after-all, naturally thin husband). I ordered first.

“I’ll have [note: I said, “I’ll have”] two double-doubles, protein style, extra onions.” The young man behind the counter then asked, “Fries or a shake?” To which I replied, “No.” Then, he turned to Tim and asked, “Would you like fries or a shake?”

I guess he thought I couldn’t possibly eat two burgers. I guess he was wrong. I set him straight. (I know you know I did.)

Yet, there was to be another hitch in our last luscious lunch.

One of the guys who cleans up the customer tables was, shall we say, a bit talkative. You could hear him schmoozing from across the room. I don’t know about you, but when I’m eatin’ so fine, I want to concentrate on my food. Besides, he was so damn perky. (I’m kinda like Lou Grant in that respect.) So, as he made his way across the joint, pausing at each and every table to chat, Tim and I resolved not to make eye contact with the guy. Alas, the table next to us tried that. It didn’t work. So, just as he turned our way, what could I do but shoot Tim a distraught look and cry, “I can’t believe you’re breaking up with me!”

We ate the rest of our lunch in peace.

Last night my very own, fabulous book group (the one I've been in for over a decade) did QUEEN OF THE ROAD off galley copies. Thanks, ladies!

Of course, they were very complimentary. (What else were they going to say? They knew my onion rings would have made great projectiles.) And, for once, everyone finished the book! (Ditto - well, at least they said they did.) But, I was particularly gratified that in addition to the humor, they also "got" the underlying themes:

Don't wait - live your dreams NOW.

Keep challenging and stretching yourself.

The most important thing is to spend time with the people you love.

So, without further ado, here's my fabulous book group:

(Photo taken by our knights in shining armour, Peter Gail and his friend Michael, who had a camera in his cell phone, and saved the day when my camera refused to work.)
Jane Ann Hebert, Dina Horwedel, Sheryl Allen, me, Robbie Barr, Susan Wientzen at the Dark Horse, whose sister restaurant, The Bum Steer is mentioned in QUEEN OF THE ROAD as the place Tim and I had our first date. (He tricked me into going - the name couldn't be more appropriate.)

A few of the women are mentioned in the book:

Jane Ann has worked with Tim. Last night, she had to answer the question: "Is he really as great as Doreen portrays him?" (Hmmm. Wait'll I do that next edition.) Answer: "Yes." (There's that whole onion ring thing, again.) But then, she added, "And, what's really great, is you can tell how much he loves Doreen." Made even my cold, shrivelled heart melt. Thanks, Jane Ann.

Susan got some ribbing because in the book, I call her, "the most gorgeous woman I know." So, of course, she had to point out that I've had PRK - twice. (Maybe that explains my blinking in the picture.)

Sheryl, I term my "insane" friend, because her dream is to hike the Appalachian trail - 'nough said.

Robbie is mentioned in the acknowledgements as one of my beta readers, because I very much appreciated her judgment. (She's a judge - get it?)

Dina, who has had a fascinating life, providing aid in destitute, war-torn areas around the globe, had been in our group years before, then left to do her good work. She came back only recently and we're selfishly thrilled to have her with us, again.

Acknowledged, but not present, are Eileen GIlday and Deborah Ramirez who couldn't be there last night. We missed you, ladies! See you next time! (Geez. I hope it's not something I wrote.)

PS - Mom. I know you're going to be royally P.O.'d as only a Queen Mother can, that all these ladies have read the book and you have not. But, I wanted you to read the real book (you know, not a typo-filled, mistake-ridden, no blurbs yet galley copy) and I only got those last week. Yes, I know, I haven't sent you one of those, either. And, yes, I know in desperation, you ended up ordering one on Amazon.

I'll be happy to sign it for you.

In anticipation of QUEEN OF THE ROAD being published in one (GULP!) week, I thought I would post some excerpts with lessons learned.