"If I only had a brain."

Main Entry: no–brain·er
Pronunciation: \ˈnō-ˈbrā-nər\
Function: noun
Date: 1973
: something that requires a minimum of thought

"It's not good to sit in the sun, you know," says my coworker, settling in next to me. I think back to this weekend when a similar conversation took place on Mount Rainier. My children are always harping on me about my non-use of sunscreen. What can I say? The pre-cancer spots I had this winter are now gone and the only difference in skin care is that I've been sitting in the sun...

"Shouldn't you be packing your office?" I reply to my coworker. Our team is moving tomorrow, and boxes were not delivered until today. The team is worried they won't get their things packed in time. I'm not worried in the least; I know I can and likely will stay till well past dark tonight packing my office, my boss's office and any vacationing team-members' offices. Boxes being delivered late is so not enough to ruffle my tailfeathers.

I try to cut my broccoli with the new, compostable forks we've been provided - the middle tyne bends completely forward, making it impossible to spear my cancer-fighting vegetable. I throw the fork down in disgust and pick up the broccoli, slathered in butter, with my fingers.

"Did you know that the new plasticware dissolves if you leave it in liquid too long?" he says. This does not bode well for my chances of eating my barbequed chicken without using my fingers. I am already pressing my social anxieties by eating in a public place AND with someone right next to me AND it being a guy AND I am using my fingers. People are strolling by, and I am certain they are watching me out of their peripheral vision. "Look at that pig of a woman!" they are whispering to each other. "She's eating with her fingers!"

"Yes, but she has lovely hair." Little do they know that the secret to smoothing unruly curls and giving your hair a nice gleam is lip gloss. Burt's Bees because it's organic, and I closely look after my health...

"Really? It will actually dissolve?" I ask, looking skeptical. This seems a stretch to me, although I do have a Gretchen's cookie in my office that is seven months old and still soft. So, anything is possible, I guess.

"Yes," he replies, "It's made of potato starch." My eyes light up; my family loves potatoes in any form - here's one we've never tried, though. Potatoes are healthy, earthy things and I'm all for healthy and earthy. In fact, I am certain that potato vodka is healthier than other forms of v-juice.

I briefly consider testing his statement by dropping my fork into my diet coke and letting it sit for seven months. I'm curious to know if it will outlast the Gretchen's cookie. In the meantime, I dump six packets of salt on the buttered broccoli.

"Salt's bad for you, too," he says.

"I have incredibly low blood pressure."

"Wow, that's a lot of butter."

"I have low cholesterol," I say with a patient smile. "Now shouldn't you get out of the sun before you get cancer?"

"I have seasonal depression," he replies. "The sun is part of my therapy." An excellent comeback; I must remember to use it next time I am cautioned against the harmful effects of too much sun.

I consider the buttered broccoli as he walks away. Three pats seems a small amount compared to the butter used this weekend on our camping trip. Gina, walking into our camp, comments, "What on earth do you need two pounds of butter for?"

I look at her. This really is a no-brainer. The only thing we didn't put butter on was the beer. Oh, and the steak :-)

I am of the opinion that butter, just like sun and salt and beer and nearly everything else, a little or a lot is what makes the difference between healthy and not. Of course, there are exceptions to the rule - there is no amount of bullet small enough to put through your brain and have it be considered a good thing. Goldilocks had the right of it, though, for everything else - this one is too soft, this one too hard, this one just right. Finding the "just right" point is the trick.

Take the camping trip for instance. What could be healthier than being out in the middle of nature, trees all around to oxygenate us? I know I felt healthier sitting there in my camp chair drinking a rum and coke and waiting for the rest of our group to show up. Jody and I had arrived early and were enjoying a cool refreshing drink. Sable-The-Mighty-Huntress had chased a deer from our campsite upon arrival, and we had a nice little campfire already going (took me less than two minutes, for those of you who fancy yourselves fire-starters).

We could have been drinking something a little healthier, I suppose. We'd brought Bud, Pabst and some sort of pale ale. Oh, and the Malibu. Healthier would have been,say, the aforementioned potato vodka. Mixed with Pom juice for a Pomegranate Martini, we could have anti-oxidized ourselves while killing brain cells. It's truly all about balance.

That was Friday. Friday night, we slept on cold ground with hard rocks for pillows (we'd forgotten ours, but hey! we had the two pounds of butter!). Saturday morning, I awoke early and I don't want to brag but I started the morning's campfire in even less time and without aid of matches. I can blow on one burning ember, just one, and Bingo, Bongo, Bango! Fire. I am just.that.good. :-) :-) :-)

We planned well in spending most of Friday on our asses. We were, of course, conserving energy for The Great Hike, to commence the following day. This year's hike was notable for three things - 1) While I did, again, pee on the mountainside, it was in a controlled fashion, unlike last year's walk-like-a-model/dribble-in-your-knickers" fiasco 2) We hiked on snow, and 3) One of us (she-who-falls-with-grace) tried to slide off the mountainside AND fell down a hole. A two-for-one! Thankfully, we've got pics of both.

That was a truly healthy hike, though, except for the part about someone nearly sliding off the edge of the cliff. Hiking on snow in non-traction-bottom tennis shoes is good for your leg muscles, assuming you don't also break the leg falling down a hole. When we were once again safely off the mountain, we returned to the campsite to replenish our depleted bodily resources. They say when you are hiking or in the sun to drink lots of fluids, and we are serious health nuts so we did some serious drinking upon our return...

Health is relative, however, and clearly one man's silver is another man's gold. Campfires should be built with firewood - gathered in the forest or at home, makes no diff. They should not be built with lumber (this is cheating) although lumber may be used to keep it going and when you need the extra heat (like right before climbing into a freezing cold sleeping bag). But wolmanized fence posts are definitely not acceptable firewood materials. Not only is this cheating; the fumes are poisonous. This also is a no-brainer.

This was the one and only argument that broke out during the weekend, a heated discussion on whether or not it was ok to burn poisonwood. Most of us knew the answer; one stood alone on the age-old argument, "I've done it before and I'm still here." What does she know? She nearly slid off a mountain and she fell down a hole after being told, "Watch out for this hole..."

I ponder all this at work, as I am sitting in the sun, smacking my buttery lips and licking my barbequey fingers. Then I carefully place my compostables and non-compostables in the trash can sitting two feet from me, and return to work passing two sets of recycle and compostable bins.

On the way in, I pass two signs, the kind they use to let people know a restroom is closed for cleaning; strange, it's the middle of the day and usually the restrooms are cleaned without being closed.

I return to my office and tape up 25 boxes so I can begin packing my office, my boss's office, and our huge and filled storage room. And I hear the little chime that let's me know I have new email. I ignore it, though, because we are moving in 26 hours and I have a lot to pack. And someone stops in to say, "So, what should we do?" And I look at them with a blank stare. "About the email," he says. "What email?" I reply. "The one saying we need to evacuate the building immediately, a sewer line broke."

"Darn it!" I say. It comes out "FUCK!" which is completely unintentional. He laughs and wisely walks away, giving me a chance to compose myself.

My boss pokes his head in my door. "You make the call, Vicky," he says. So, I tell him, "Evacuate everyone except the admin." He firmly shakes his head. I am doomed.

I send the email. "This is not a drill. Please do as requested. Spare offices in B11 or work from home." And then I examine my options. I can wait until everyone is gone, then continue packing. Or I can go home and LAY IN THE SUN.

Another no-brainer.