You and Me.

I vacation in North Dakota. I own two pairs of shoes, but seven toothbrushes; each day gets its own color. I never order the sugar-free version of anything.

I prefer a cottage to a mansion, a campfire to a movie, and a bicycle to a sports car. I like the smell of skunk.

I won't assume roses are your favorite or that jewelry makes your heart race. I think of people as people, not templates.

I strike up conversations with cashiers and toll-takers. I remember birthdays. I'll listen to your dreams.

You notice what others miss. You enjoy the sound of laundry tumbling in the dryer. You use your blinker.

You accept the occasional lapse in service at a restaurant, realizing the server might be having a tough day. That's when you leave your biggest tip.

Squirrels amuse you.

A crossword puzzle is a worthy adversary for you. You check your own oil, and you wipe your dipstick with a random sock that was in your trunk. Or with your day pass from the national park.

Opera's not your bag. You believe there's no bad time for a road trip.

You never pass a children's lemonade stand without giving to the cause. You're not into celebrity worship.

Those near and dear to you are your stars.

You don't own high heels. You're apolitical.

You're more windows-open than climate control. You're ready to explore. You shine.