The above is an excerpt from a spec script I wrote years ago when Frasier was in production. I copied the above-content to make a point: even the prissiest of Pollys can camp! See, I was called out recently by my very dear, very beloved sister-in-law. We'll call her Sugar Belle. Whether or not she recalls, Sugar Belle called me out publicly at a recent, family get-together. She stated very matter-of-factly over a cocktail we call the Speed Freak (Grey Goose and Starbucks White Chocolate Doubleshot) that there was no way I could cut it, camping. Like, real camping and hiking. In fact, as the Speed Freaks multiplied, she challeneged me specifically to a hike to the bottom of the Grand Canyon. I say, "Bring it on, Sugar Belle!" (Just not in triple digit-heat!) I do believe a wager is in order, though. You think about it. I'll wait.
See, I dig camping, hiking, sport and such. Tuolumne Meadows Yosemite is as familiar to me as is South Coast Plaza. Yours truly was even a geology major in college ... for like a second. I then learned I may have to spend a lot of time in grad school researching in the Mojave Desert. Ick. I loathe the sun and I loathe dirty hands. That was the end of that. I ended up studying PoliSci and French. Turned out there was a great market for that! Needless to say, despite the dirt -that's what Swiss hiking gloves are for- Sugar Belle called out the wrong Polly Prissy Pants!
True, I may prefer a National Park to just pitching a tent hither and thither; I like a clean lavvy, cheerful, Disney rangers and smooth, shaded, spacious sites. I like a secluded campsite, but I need it within screaming-distance of other campers in case of bears, serial killers, Bigfoot or hippies. I also prefer a gift shop nearby where I can buy a new piece of amber jewelry to commemorate the trip. I also do not prefer, but require, wine, Guinness, camembert and a baguette, my mini, camping espresso maker and my green, Speckleware demitasses. My camping togs might be old, holey, trashed Ralph Lauren pieces and vintage Boy Scouts shirts; my hiking shoes might be vintage Italian climbing boots. Still, that doesn't mean I can't scale the terrifyingly steep face of Mount Lambert (done that), live on Nature Valley granola bars (peanut butter flavor!) and Cup o' Noodles, take a cat bath or wash my hair utilizing the baby powder-and-braids method for a week.
As of this week, the Grand Canyon hike is officially set in stone; although, ironically, it seems Princess Sami has yet to respond to this challenge, verbally, casually, written or otherwise. Though, we have shared more than a few Grey Goose Cape Cods since I first scribed this friendly challenge. I shall, nevertheless, be tromping up and down the Canyon this coming February with my Viking, a fave hippie pal and said-hippie's young microcosms. The Italian, red-laced, hiking boots (as seen above) have yet another adventure at hand! Join us, Sami my love, won't you? I love you, man!!!