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.

With the Grammys coming up on Sunday, I was reminded of something that happened last year - when we weren't living in the bus.

I went to my seamster (well, he's not a seamstress and alterer sounds like he does castrations). There was no parking except right out front in the "no parking" zone. I left my emergency lights blinking, because if I got towed, that's exactly what it would have been and ran in. There's only one try on room and it was occupied -- by a woman talking on her cell phone. And, she didn't seem to be having any emergency. No, she was talking about how she was getting her dress altered. I could feel my blood pressure rising as I waited... and waited... and waited. Finally, little Miss All Important comes out in a rather unimaginatve gown and settles herself in front of the mirror. Now we can get going here. Only... she doesn't know how long she wants the thing. She and the ever-patient Mr. Lai try out various lengths, but the poor dear just can't make up her mind. Finally, she turns to me.

"Do you have an opinion?" She asks. Do I ever. But, to my credit, I simply reply with my own query.

"That depends on what you're wearing it to."

"The Grammys" she informs me with a smirk.

You might think that was the last straw. In fact, it was only the penultimate one. The last straw occured a spit second later as I spied a tow truck lumbering down the lane toward my unsuspecting Saab. So, you'll understand that, as I ran out the door, I gave the only possible appropriate response under the circumstances: "You're wearing THAT to the Grammys?"

As a psychiatrist, I am possessed of keen powers of observation. For example, what do you notice about this guy walking on the beach in Crescent City?

I immediately noticed he’s a genius. What makes me so sure, you might ask. Look at him closely: In one hand, he has a chick-repellant, AKA metal detector. In the other, a super-duper mitigating agent, perhaps the most powerful chick-attractant of them all: kitten on leash.

Genius. Pure genius.

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 hope all this flushing cures whatever's ailing it, although I'd sure hate to be down stream. (Couldn't it have tried a little Pepto Bismol first? Even a Tums, perhaps?) Gulf of California, you've been duly warned.

(Oh, what do you want from me?)

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.

After all my ranting about Modesto, I was a bit embarrassed when, during the first snow since our arrival back home, I had the fleeting thought, "What was so bad about Modesto, anyway?"

My newest BBFF, Katie Schwartz (she's a riot with a book coming soon. Check out her blog.) were commiserating that our particular tribe does not do well in the snow. Which made me recall...

We moved to Colorado from Tucson in 1993. I had instigated the move because I "missed the four seasons." (Watching needles fall off cacti every fall just wasn't doing it for me.) Our very first week here, we were on I-25 at night in January, during a WICKED snowstorm - cars were spinning out into the shoulder. Tim turned to me and said, "I hope you're enjoying your four seasons."

See? Even my lovely hubby is capable of some snark.

The fabulously wise and wonderful editors of Quick and Simple Magazine have decided to do a spread on QUEEN OF THE ROAD for one of their summer issues.

As such, Tim and I were each interviewed by phone, and a local photographer dispatched to take pictures of us in and around the bus. The plan was to drive it to nearby Red Rocks, for a simply gorgeous setting for the outdoors shots. Since this was to be for a summer issue, we were to wear summer clothes. After much rummaging through the Royal Wardrobe, I settled on a light top, light pants and sandals.

Joe Hancock of Hancock Studio and his assistant, John, were quite wonderful - and quick. We'd had magazine photo shoots before for my first book and the promised "three hours" inevitably turn into an all day affair. (Hey, Joe! Wonder why I insisted on meeting at 3 p.m.? I figured dusk would hold you to the three hour thing.) This was actually the very first shoot we've ever done which came in UNDER the promised time. Thus, we got our "quick." Unfortunately, "simple" was not to be had.

It started snowing. Did I mention I wore sandals?

Red Rocks would have been obliterated by white out, so we stayed at the warehouse where Tim stores the bus. Scenic, huh?

Joe and John stayed all nice and snuggly warm in their North Face parkas.

If I look like I'm freezing, I am. Then, there was the constant wind thing...

Poor Joe. I kept demanding, "Don't supermodels on swimsuit shoots in Antarctica get like $10,000 a day?" When he informed me that no one on this particular shoot would be getting anywhere near that amount, I countered with, "Fine. But, I doubt while those supermodels are freezing in their bikinis, the photographers are allowed to wear parkas." Joe kept quiet on that one, although it's not hard to imagine what he was thinking. (Something along the lines of, "Why didn't I listen to my mother and become an electrician? Oh, no. I had to be an artiste.")

Poor Joe.

(And, in case you're wondering - the shoot could not be rescheduled due to the magazine's deadline.)

***Special thanks to John Frank of Vanture Coach Manufacturing (our bus converters) for taking the photos of the photo shoot. (I figure I'll get as many favors out of them as I can before they read about themselves in the book - I kid! I kid!)
Oh, and ladies (as well as 10% of the gentlemen amongst you): DO check out this picture on my book group page, taken just as we took off at the very start of our bus year - The Men of Vanture Coach. They're quite ready for their own close ups, no?

Ah, the "great" outdoors.

Tim took me on a hike today. Well, that's what happens when you get older, you forget stuff, ya know? Like what happened the last time he took me on a hike (which would have been on Sitka, AK during our bus year. Suffice it to say, that expedition shall forever be known as The Great Alaskan Death March.)

(Miles and me on Sitka. We're beaming because my whining just induced Tim to agree to turn back. I know what you're all thinking: "But, you've never looked so happy!" Well, yeah. I said this was taken at the precise moment we stopped. And, by the way: my editor agreed with you, because that's my author photo.)

As Tim gets even older, I suppose he'll be immune to my pleas, what with being able to turn off his hearing aide and all. If a princess whines in the wilderness and her consort can't hear her... did she even agree to go on the damn hike in the first place?

In this royal's case, not so much.

What did possess me to go? I do try to grace Tim with my presence on these things at least once a year just to remind us both why I don't go more often. And, truth be told, I did make the mistake of complaining that I was getting bored with my usual workout; daily treadmill in front of TV. Yes, I do "interval training" where I jack up the speed every few minutes just to fool my body into thinking I'm actually exerting myself. But, still. Ugly Betty has been on hiatus, The Bachelor's current crop of contestants are the most vapid in years (vapid's usually highly entertaining, but this season proves even vapidity has its limits). And, American Idol, well, don't get me started. Oh, all right. I think it's a measure of the show's lack of impact this season that it was only when I watched it yesterday while working out I discovered Carly'd been booted off. Where is Rock Star when you need it?

So, I agreed to the hike. After clearing out the cobwebs from my hiking boots, figuring out the best outfit (D: But, you said to layer! T - I didn't mean a sweater set) we were off.

Well, not quite. This particular hike usually takes Tim an hour when he's solo, so he never bothers to bring anything. For this auspicious occasion, he found it necessary to inform me (with considerable glee I might add) what he was carrying in his pack: Moleskin ("in case you blister your feet"), a space blanket ("in case you injure yourself and I have to keep you warm so you don't go into shock"), waterproof matches ("in case I have to build a signal fire for the rescuers to find you when I have to go get help when you injure yourself ").

You get the idea.

He continued his helpful commentary on the first steep slope.

"Wow. You're doing much better than I thought you would." I informed him that I should hope so, since part of my treadmill routine included 10 minutes of 3.5 mph walking on the steepest incline. He was impressed, if a tad disappointed, as in, "Gee. I thought this was going to be more entertaining." Then, a couple ambled toward us with Styrofoam coffee cups in their hands. Tim couldn't resist stopping them to ask, "Hey! How far is it to the Starbucks at the top?" The couple laughed uproariously. I didn't get the joke. There's a Starbucks everywhere, isn't there? You don't suppose...

It was just then I remembered actually doing this very hike with him some years ago with Miles. I still recalled how I balked when I saw that very steep incline, as Tim raced ahead with the poodle. After a few steps, Miles turned around and waited for me. I reminded Tim of this, saying, "He and I were looking at each other like, 'Are you going? I'm not going if you're not going. Let's just wait for the crazy man, here.'" Tim had a slightly different take on the incident.

"Miles assumed you'd come up lame and wanted to stay with you."

What does my husband want from me, anyway?

When we did reach the top (no establishments for refreshment of any kind, I might add), several cars were parked at the overlook. Tim pointed out a woman sitting in the passenger seat of one of them, while her husband ventured out for a peek.

"Look! She likes interacting with the outdoors the same way you do."

Yeah, there were nice views. But I think doing this more than every couple of weeks would get even more boring than my treadmill routine.

At least I can change the channel.

Seriously, for the outdoors inclined amongst you, can anyone explain to me? What's so "great" about the "great outdoors"?

Now I have your attention! But, that really is the title of my Huffington Post article which ran today.

And, if you want to see my video of this incident (now, I REALLY have your attention), please go to my website, www.QueenOfTheRoadTheBook.com and click on the (yes, we're nude) picture of me and Tim in front of our bus on the left on the homepage.

First, excerpts from the review (then the backstory) in the August issue (which just came out while I was in New York):

"Beneath its fun and frothy exterior, you'll find in this wild ride across America's highways and byways a lovely portrait of a marriage that treats its ups and downs with humor and grace."

And,

"Orion regales us with Americana of all sorts as she chronicles her journey with laugh-out-loud-funny tales of the many bus mishaps and unusual situations she and her husband encounter in their year on the road. Best of all, though, is watching her transformation from a materialistic couch potato into someone who learns to appreciate experiencing life to its fullest."

Back in April, when my publisher told me that QUEEN OF THE ROAD had been selected by the book editor of Elle Magazine as as a Readers’ Jury pick for the month of August, I thought it was a big deal. I mean, why wouldn't one?

Indeed. Unless, of course, the "one" were my husband. When I informed the Royal Consort about this honor being bestowed upon his Sovereign and Wife, he screwed up his face and asked, "L Magazine? What is that, a lesbian thing?"

The dear man had never heard of Elle. Well. We, of course, promptly set him, er... straight on that score. And, We could not resist adding, "My publicist is still pitching the lesbian magazines. But, they're slow and like to take their time."

On another note, my podcasts are up on Podcast Alley:

My Podcast Alley feed! {pca-7468dbce9c92915dc2ec8d15f645d8e7}

You can also listen to them directly on my website (my favorite is #6: Mobile Martinis, natch).

And, a final note: I'm doing an author chat on Library Thing for the next two weeks. Come on over.

As I do more and more book groups for QUEEN OF THE ROAD (I'll post about them later this week), a common theme seems to be emerging: The women are in love with Tim. Really. (I mean, really?) This is not something I have to use my keen powers of shrinky observation to discern. Nope. They tell me this straight out. One even went so far as to warn me to be wary (of her? other throngs of bookish women?) Oh, please. My husband isn't a normal man with normal desires (the occasional nudist RV park notwithstanding). To wit: I fear his next hare-brained scheme is that we live on a boat. (Yeah, it sounds romantic, but we know nothing about boats.) What's my proof? I've recently caught him surfing sailboat sites on the net. Why, oh why can't I have a normal husband who just surfs for porn?

Not enough for ya? OK, ladies. Let's see whatcha think of Mr. Perfect, now:

Last night, Tim and I had whores' ovaries at one of our favorite happy hour spots. He ordered lobster and because he's so perfect, offered some to me, even though he knows I won't eat it. (Although I gave up keeping kosher long ago, I still can't do the lobster thing - I just don't see the appeal of having my dinner stare at me while I dismember it.) Usually, that's the end of the interaction, but for some reason, last night he queried further.

"So, what exactly is gefilte fish?" He asked. We've been together nearly 20 years, have gone to almost that number of Passover Sedars, and now he's asking? I explained it's fish ground with eggs and flour or matzoh, molded into oblong shapes, usually served in a jellied broth. (At least the way my family buys 'em.)

"Really?" He asked, dipping that other white meat into a luscious turine of warm butter. "And you call yourselves the 'Chosen People'"?

Fine. He's perfect - and funny.

Thanks so much for your support.