I'm losing it.

Exhibit A: A rare hardcover Anne of Green Gables trilogy. Worth $XX? I got it for $1 at a book sale and planned on reading it over our roadtrip. GONE.

Exhibit B: A knitting book with bag patterns. Worth $15. I reminded myself that I really wanted to make a certain one that was out of this book and planned on making it after I finished my current project. VANISHED.

Exhibit C: My National Park Pass. Worth $80. I was about to reserve a camping spot for an upcoming trip with my girlfriends when I realized I could get a discount with my card. MISSING.

I'm pretty sure I'm losing it. I'm not the kind of person who misplaces things. I'm very, very organized. Even in the days where I was stoned 23 out of 24 hours of the day, I knew where my shit was. And now, in the present, I not only know where my crap is but I know where my Mom has her lighter and where Dominic's passport is too. Which makes me feel even crazier that these items have just gone missing. Was it the fact that I moved around year after year? Was it a case of spring cleaning? Or is it that I've simply lost my fucking mind?

In a place where fancy 3-course meals are only $25...

Where the fettucini is hand shaven and the lamb is braised in wine. The piano man plays songs from Billy Joel to Billy Jean. In this actual world the waiters serve food like they're synchronize swimming and the valet boys accidentally hit the gas too hard. In this place, they have guys who pull out your chair, to fix your napkin back on your lap and I'm pretty sure if I asked they might've braided my hair. This is where you have the greatest views, the nicest hostess and no one spits in your food. And by the end of the evening, when you're pleasantly full, wearing a fancy black dress and watching others order the $100 duck - you lean in to ask your boyfriend, "We're still hippies right? You still have your tag from Value Village on your sports coat and we're eating on sale." He agrees, you kiss and the night is all yours.

Move over.

It's in the middle of the night, on a Saturday:

Me: You're taking half of the bed.

Dominic: Don't we both get half?

Me: Grumble grumble, asdklfja;ds, zzzzzzz

I totally forgot about this conversation until I got home late from a concert last night and we were getting ready for bed. When Dominic reminded me of how silly it sounded, we couldn't stop laughing and then I probably farted. I love relationships.

Okay, go!

In a little over a month, we're taking a road trip down the Pacific Coast Highway all the way to San Diego and then driving back up through the middle. We're not putting a time limit on this (oh, the joy of freelancing) so it could take anywhere from 1-4 weeks. We've planned the first 3 days and then I got sick of guessing where we would be when so we're winging it.

That's where you come in. Where should we stop? What should we eat? Where should we stay?

To give you a little background about us - we are not shoppers. Neither of us buy anything on vacation. Well, I used to buy a magnet as my memento of where I have been but our new fridge isn't magnetic so now I really buy nothing.

I like to hike and see the unusual shit. If there's a random dinosaur statue in the middle of nowhere, that's where I want to be. If there's a museum all about gum, tell me. And if there's a farmer's market anywhere, I need to know.

Dominic likes food. If other road trips say much about us, we will probably eat out a few times a week (total). Because if there's a campground with a bbq that's where we rather be. We don't need to be in a restaurant if there's a beach that has a better view. But where should we go on the days where we don't want to set up camp? The healthier the better. Remember, we'll be in a car so the less farts and immediate stops, the better. No buffets. No 72 oz steaks. No big family restaurants.

He also likes history. Did someone famous die on a cliff? Was there a president somewhere? Let me know, so I can let him know.

What else? I don't know. You tell me.

Oh, and thanks.

And in this snoreless world, where I am sleeping at 3:42am

Where I sleep a full 8 hours refreshed and ready to start the day. There should be a heaping bowl of Cheerios with a banana, raisins and almonds please. The TV should be set to Bravo or How I Met Your Mother, and there should never be repeats of anything ever. In this lovely land, my boyfriend breathes with ease and I'm not typing this in the other room with a headache and a wineache and a desire to stomp on our wooden floors like a child. In fact, this is the kind of place where the comforter smells like lavender and flowers grow by my feet. Daisies please, but not gerberdaisies because I hate those and I hate anyone who says they like them because they are stupid and wrong and they probably like Clinique - ugh. In this dream world of sleepy wonder I'd like my feet to be warm and not require socks every night. I'd like my hands to be a perfect temperature and I'd love a great big cup of tea to be ready on command with the good, expensive kind of honey I simply can not bring myself to buy in normal world land. This is where I have one of those foam beds just so every now and then I can jump up and down with a glass of wine or a bowling ball at the other end, like the infomercial tells me I can. In my special place I'd like there to never feel a draft through our window and for everything that needs to be done for the day - like the dishes, the laundry, the weeding, the garbage - has already magically happened by our live-in maid that we never see or hear or have to pay.

My boyfriend's making me do it.

Get your mind out of the gutter.

Today, Dominic asked me "Why haven't you mentioned our little site on your blog?". He didn't say why, but I know the reason. For whatever the case may be, I seem to get a lot of hits on this here stoopid writing forum. I'm thinking a lot of it is due to the little button on the bottom that lets bored people at work surf through the world of blogs. I was one of you not too long ago, so I can understand.

So for what it's worth, I present you with www.lastdyingwish.com

It's a little thing I came up with after a good friend lost her good friend, and then a few months later she also lost her dad. She's one of those people who keeps getting struck by lightning, but manages to live to tell the tale - over and over and over again. Some say that she could be jinxed, I just say she's a fighter and the girl I can talk to about vibrators.

When she first had to deal, I kept thinking, fuck - what if no one knows what my last dying wish is? What if I tell everyone what I want, but when I get hit by that almighty rock, no one remembers. Or worse, they remember something I told them when I was stoned.

Thus, I wanted a record of what my last dying wish should be. So I bothered Dominic until he couldn't take it anymore and the site was born. Anyone can enter their last dying wish and of course I ended up writing something totally silly - something that's not actually what I would want on my deathbed - but hey, it's a website that we created and we think it's kinda cool.

So check it out - for my boyfriend's sake.

Please don't do this. Please.

When I spend an hour and a half at the gym, I know I might not smell like butterflies and candy corns. But why should I have to endure the smell of a fresh fart in the middle of a narrow hallway? Couldn't you have saved that gas when you entered the much wider locker room? Or in the actual gym, where you could easily walk away and pretend it was grunts o' lots guy? No, you couldn't do that could you? You just had to eat burritos last night and then you waited for the perfect opportunity to let one rip in one of the tightest space ever, so that the smell couldn't properly escape.

So, from all of us at the gym, I would like to say fuck you. I hate you. And I really despise your fart.