FELLOW DIRTBAG REVIEWS HIS EUROVAN STAY

City Parking

TO AVOID PARALLEL PARKING, THE EUROVAN EXPLORES A VARIETY OF OPTIONS

Dirtbag Beauty Secret: We Are Fashionable!

DIRTBAGS OR FASHION MODELS: WHICH IS WHICH?

Dirtbag Party Theme: The Cook-Off

The Eurovan: A Love Story (Part II)

DOMESTIC ISSUES. F*** the Sliding Door!

When I open the sliding door the metal cup holding my toothbrush and toothpaste crashes to the pavement. I cuss under my breath, bending over to pick it up. Almost every time I open the sliding door something (usually my toothbrush) falls out of the nook behind the passenger’s seat. Almost every time, I mumble an expletive. With toothbrush and toothpaste in hand, I glance around the dark street. Sleeping in the van crosses my mind, but the late-night traffic of Tacoma convinces me not too. Plus, Julie told me her couch is really comfortable.

Dirtbag Beauty Secret: Laundry Day

Back when I lived in an apartment, my roommate and I took great pleasure in stringing our wet laundry up in our small kitchen and living room. Socks and underwear hung on the racks of the dishwasher we never used. Sweatshirts draped over the backs of chairs, and everything else hung from a maze of p-cord tied to one door hinge, clipped to a #4 Black Diamond Camelot stuck between the refrigerator and the wall, then tied again to our bookshelf.

Lake Superior to James Bay By Canoe

A Woman’s Musings on Voyageur Culture, Gangster Rap and 400 Years of Male Shenanigans

Naked and squealing, my three male companions and I emerge from the cold water of Lake Superior, inaugurating our 450-mile-long journey to the arctic waters of James Bay. A brisk, early-autumn breeze empurples our extremities as we slide our two heavy-laden canoes into the water and begin our paddle northeast into the Michipicoten River, the first leg of our expedition. Fishing boats speckle the immediate swathe of silver-blue water behind us. Past the fishing rigs, the lake stretches on uninterrupted, the shore of my home state, Michigan, lying beyond the horizon.

Dirtbag Beauty Secret: Gold Bond Foot Powder

Benefits of Gold Bond Foot Powder (or, what Gold Bond does for me):

• Dry, slime-free feet—every day!
• Fewer complaints from my climbing partners when I take my shoes off on small belay ledges.
• An enormous decrease of fowl scents in the Eurovan.
• After several days—or weeks—without a shower, a little splash of Gold Bond under the arms or down the pants goes a long way. (And if your skin is too sensitive for the medicated foot-specific powder, Gold Bond Body Powder in the yellow bottle is a great alternative.)

MY JOURNEY TO GOLD BOND

Crawling out of our tent last summer, my co-instructor shook his head at the pristine alpine cirque surrounding us, and exclaimed that his world had been consumed by two scents: coffee and the smell of my feet. My secret coffee stash exploded in my backpack recently; my foot odor was a three-year-old life-problem. Our six Outward Bound students giggled from inside their tents, and to the amusement of my co-instructor, I quickly sniffed my crusty wool socks before stuffing my feet inside. All you need is Gold Bond, I heard the voice of one of my climbing partners inside my head.

The Eurovan: A Love Story (Part I)

THE FIRST YEAR OF MARRIAGE

A gust of wind catches the hem of my pink sundress, blowing it high enough to reveal my underwear to the empty street. With a payphone cradled in the crook of my neck I glance up, eyes swollen from holding back tears, at storm clouds growing in the sky. When I woke up this morning it was spring in California: sunshine, blue sky, and the smell of sagebrush. Now a massive, Eastern Sierra snowstorm is moments away from unleashing. For warmth, I have a pair of brown yoga pants and a powder blue sweatshirt in my backpack.

“Hey Dad,” I whimper into the phone. “For some reason they couldn’t finish the windows in the van today. It’s still at the shop. They took the cardboard out, so now I really can’t drive it.”

The Case of the Sore Dingy

My sister, Toad, was the official witness. The conversation she described to me went something like this: Keefer, our twelve-year-old brother, is standing near the fireplace, pulling on his snow pants. He’s balancing on one foot and breathing through his teeth, struggling to get one foot through a pant leg that is turned up and inward at the ankle. His blond hair stands up on end as he begins to hop, kicking his leg out in front of him, trying to free his stuck foot.

“Mom, my dingy hurts,” he says, pausing for a moment from his flailing.

“You’re fine,” she says. Mom is searching through crates of snow gear, looking for her lost glove.

“But it hurts!” he says, sitting on the ground, continuing to fight the upturned pant leg.