My Own Private Oliver

Now I understand why all those New Yorkers buy homes and cottages in the Hamptons.

Sometimes it's good for the soul to get away from the hullaballoo of a big, dirty city and escape to the countryside, where you can build campfires, make S'mores, go canoeing with a BFF, skip rocks and roast smokies at 1 am in the morning.

Ok, so Vancouver isn't quite New York and Oliver isn't quite the Hamptons -- but campfires, s'mores, canoeing, rocks and smokies were certainly part of my itinerary this past weekend.

The trip started out on somewhat of the wrong foot -- all seven of us roadtrippin' past Hope and into the interior had just finished a long, eight hour day at work, only to have to journey for another five hours through Manning Park, the mountains, Keremeos and some other small towns that have never seen an Aritzia, Booster Juice, Cafe Crepe or Geren Ford. Road lines were hard to see, the new Griffin iTrip was more like Griffin iCrap and the copious amounts of Timbits I wolfed down did not sit well in my stomach (probably because I spent most of the week avoiding carbs like Ricky Martin avoids coming out of the closet).

Five hours, one near-collision with a female deer and three repeats of the Night Ripper album from Girl Talk, we made it into the teeny, tiny blip on a map called Oliver and met with our dear friend Meeters in some random high school parking lot, where some of her siblings' friends had broken into a small school bus and where we found her chilling, waiting for our arses to get there.

Us seven very tired and cranky young professionals -- ranging from a social worker to a financial advisor to a fashion photographer to a Masters Degree-holding psychologist -- did not enjoy the prospect of participating in a little neighborhood B & E and fought for our right to go to bed, which we thankfully won at about 1:30 in the morning.

The next day was considererably less stressful -- the two and a half hour personal wine tour we indulged in probably helped take the edge off of, well, everything. I, myself, purchased a fantabulous bottle of white wine from one of our stops and split the cost of a Pinot Grigio that my girl Sushi and I plan on uncorking this coming weekend. Though Vancouver's mega loss in Game 6 was a downer, the delicious home-cooked turkey dinner and ensuing dessert was enough to placate us until Game 7 today. And there's nothing that a little Caramilk Bar S'Mores can't help.

Sunday come around some sadness and sniffles, as we bid farewell to our soon-to-be Eskimo friend Meeters, who's spending an entire yet shelling out chemicals and medicine in the dry (ie. non-alcoholic) town of Rankin Inlet up in the northern Canadian tundras -- terribly unfortunate, but heck, the year will pass just like that anyway. It always does after twenty-three.

If you ever make it to Oliver and back, make sure to stop at Tickleberry's for some fudge and a gander at some tacky souvenirs, but don't get to overly ambitious like me -- after a huge breakfast, some crab from the Charlottes and a couple after dinner (breakfast?) mints, I still managed to buy myself marble fudge and a child's size waffle cone of Rolo ice cream (more like a heffer version, honestly it was huge)...all within the span of an hour and a half. Diet starts today, trust me.

So though Haute Hippie didn't necessarily go camping -- I did sleep indoors -- I was definitely camp-ish. Just don't count the hairdryer I lugged along with me.

And one the best things about my roadtrip?

Getting to wear flats for three days straight.






I'm Lovin' it: Me. Box Seats. Game 7 of the Vancouver VS. Dallas hockey series. Free food and drinks. Thank you Tom Tom, I owe you my life.

I'm Over it: Five minutes left in this work day.

Guilty Pleasure Track of the Day: Song #4 on the newest Rihanna CD. I'm too sheepish to name the song -- but it's something about ridin' and dyin' with your man. So Bonnie and Clyde.