There's just no telling.

Well, my post-10K knee is better, or seems to be. Thank you Satan, for leaving my joints so promptly.

(Now stay out!)

Some of you don’t know this yet, but I am an itinerant this summer. Since early May, I have already lived in two places. I am moving again tonight, then moving again in a week (June 8), then going to the Yukon for all of July, then moving again to live with my parents for August, and then back to where I started in September.

I did a terrible packing job with most of my things. Pick any box and you are likely to find combinations like: bathroom scale, sports bra, bag of 100 tea lights, pair of heels, four folded pillow cases; or two sweaters, sieve, stack of books, butter dish. It’s inexcusable.

I also just cut all my hair off because I am not going to get it cut for two months at least. It’s a bit corporate/preppy looking right now, not really my look, but what the hell, give me a month and it will be a shaggy mess again. I was going to wear my collar up all day, just to be a complete ass about it, but I chickened out.

In the Yukon, my sister and I are going to paddle down the Wind River and the Peel River to Fort McPherson (in the Northwest Territories), with a bit of hiking on the side. Then we’re going to the Dawson City Music Fest, where we’ll see our friend John the unbelievable fiddler play in his kick-ass band The Creaking Tree String Quartet.

For the paddling/hiking trip, although there were originally four of us, it increasingly sounds like my sister and I will be on our own. Unless there are volunteers to join us? Applicants must be able to take off to the Yukon for three weeks minimum, be able to endure or enjoy: 1) lengthy periods of complete silence, 2) rehydrated food day after day after day, 3) aching muscles, 4) merciless clouds of huge fanged mosquitoes, 5) making up new words that can’t be spelled with the regular alphabet, and then working them into extemporized songs, 6) crapping outside, and 7) the heart-breaking gorgeousness of the world.

A friend who heard about the original four-woman trip suggested that it was highly possible by the end of it we’d be completely mad, and doing wild shrieking kicking howling dances around the campfire and smearing menstrual blood on our faces. Another male friend alternatively suggested we’d sit around at the end of every day and bitch about every man who’s ever done any of us, or any friend of ours, or any woman living or dead, wrong.

I’ll let you know how it goes.

(But more likely, since my sister and I generally enjoy the company of good and interesting men, we’ll just take a lot of pictures, get really buff and serene, invent some new words, and start communicating telepathically. And maybe, just maybe, we’ll both master the art of pissing standing up.)