On Camping

Pleading amnesia with regards to last summer‘s outdoor experiences, my family and I recently inaugurated our new old camper. The weekend began with a crisis of logistics. In a pick-up that legally seats three, we parceled out our children (to the gracious in-laws, and their big honking 6 seat dually) till we were left with my ten year-old son, Aaron, the German shepherd, and myself. The seat lottery, heartily rigged, lodged the German shepherd in the bed of the truck, tethered to my wrist through a lead in the sliding window. Did you all know that dog slobber makes the most delightful scattered spray pattern when traveling at 55 miles per hour? Neither did I! Well, we are not the squeamish type, and we gamely wiped away the spittle from our necks and faces and set ourselves up for adventure. Aside from the minor set-backs (door to camper swinging open on the highway, a mysterious dripping, and a campsite that was the obvious victim of recent flooding), our first night of camping was concluded with smores and air-conditioning.
Day two commenced with my ritual walking of the dog. Armed with a plastic bag and a dose of caffeine induced optimism, I trotted my neurotic pet out into what could be considered the campground lawn. This grassy area is surrounded by concrete plots occupied by various motor homes. Samson and I proceeded unimpeded. Its early, naught but the thirsty mosquitoes seem to be stirring. Doggy proceeds to hunch into his evacuating stance, I ready the bag, and proceed to demean myself. As I stand I feel a tell-tell tug at the lead that signals that Samson’s attention has been drawn. Before I could shout the word no, Samson begins lunging with all his might at a Shi-Tzu with over-confidence issues. I plant my feet to stop the pull. Alas, I am wearing flip-flops, and every blade of grass is coated in dried river-bottom silt. I begin to slide. Seeing my fate, my shouting reaches fever pitch. The little girl walking the bait scoops her doggie into her arms, and beats a hasty retreat. This is not before I am dragged to the ground. It is at this point, as I am standing up, reevaluating my station in life, that I realize that I never cinched the poo bag. I look down at myself to discover that I have been splattered with offal (little known fact: some animals, when placed in situations such as long car rides, new environments, and dubious drinking water, display gastrointestinal distress resulting in loose or watery bowels, uh huh). As if my situation weren’t already life-affirming, I noticed that every camper within earshot, had mysteriously awoke and had been following my predicament with great interest. I trudged back to camper, eyes downcast, swearing viciously.
If any of you are pet owners, or child rearers, you have probably played the game “Name that Smell”. You may not have precipitated it, but at one point in your life, you have turned to another, and the dialogue has went something like this:
Person A: [sniff sniff] Do you smell that?
Person B: What?
A: Over here, cant you smell it?
B: Now I can, what is that?
A: I don’t know. Where’s it coming from?
B: I don’t know, smell over here. Does it seem stronger here?
You get the gist. Well, we had ourselves a rousing game this past weekend. At about high noon, ye ole camper began to heat up like the social security office on the first business day of the month. The poor air-conditioner was doing its level best, but just couldn’t seem to effectively circulate any air. A fan was procured. About 20 minutes later the smell arrived. I am not blaming the fan in any way. Numerous suspects were suggested, namely the dog. I countered that I had been with the dog nearly all day, and if a 100+ lb dog cops a squat anywhere in your vicinity, you are bound to notice. Other suspects included: flooded septic receiver, old reservoir, and an indiscriminant camper toilet user, etc. I hope to have this issue resolved before this weekend’s upcoming trip. Wish me luck

This weekend began with mischief and mayhem. First of all, my four year-old regressed to age two and proceeded to wreak havoc while I was performing my ritual animal husbandry tasks. He began by experimenting with the little sprayer hose that lives in the kitchen sink. I come down stairs to find him sopping up 25 gallons of water with every dishcloth and hand towel in the house (he had removed table cloth and was prepared to put it to work as well). James Michael Leo Wilson (that is what I call him when he is naughty) then reorganized the bathroom cabinets (whilst I was bathing ferret) so that all items were readily accessible from the floor! He then surreptitiously removed every furniture cushion and arranged them in a pile in the living room, while I was trying to start demon spawn mower (I use all of my weekly curse words in this exercise). I believe this was done in order to reenact some absurd wrestling maneuver. This brings me to day two.

Saturday: Hubby suggested we all, the five of us (three children, two adults, absurdly outnumbered we are), take a little trip to the Brookston (small Indiana town) Popcorn and Apple Festival. Ahh…The sights. You have your typical yard sale fare, craft booths, and lo and behold “Professional” wrestling. You see, we are walking down various side-streets in this quaint little town when we come upon…yes…a Wrestling Ring, set up right smack dab in the middle of the block! The children begged us to stay for the show, and the loving, acquiescent parents that we are, we agreed. Now I don’t know about ya’ll, but when I think wrestling, I think muscle-bound men writhing around in tight pants. Not so abhorrent, in theory, that is if said theory is applied correctly. Well, let me tell you there were plenty of tight pants, but not a muscle in sight! Oh, believe you me I took pictures. There was one fella who had the supple breasts of a young adult film star (course the rest of him was not so enviable).

One other “professional” wrestler had obviously forgotten that when one is a man, and if that one man wears tights, that man should also take care to wear proper undergarments. What I saw wasn’t impressive, and I have done grave stone rubbings that were, uhh…less revealing. I should mention that the high point of this family field trip was that yours truly was privileged enough to see an actual elf! Oh yes! I was crowd watching, as is my want, when I noticed a peculiarly dressed elderly man beginning his approach. I looked a bit closer, and noticed that he had elf ears! Not believing my eyes, the blackberry camera and I approached for a closer inspection. The ears were typically pointed and very large. I could detect no obvious seem where they might be attached, and as said elf was nearly one-hundred, I doubted a malicious hoax. The picture is posted. You be the judge.

Later that evening hubby and I are reclining on the sofa, when it occurs to us that we have no suitable snack food. Now as we live in the land that the twenty-four hour shop-center forgot (I haven’t forgotten that Comcast also disbelieves in the existence of Delphi), this is quite a revelation at ten o’clock at night. We strategize for a bit and admit that we are willing to pay an excessive amount of money for gas station priced munchies. The debate then ensues regarding which of us is more suitable to approach middle-aged gas station attendant in pajamas. Guess who lost? So, I am at nearest gas station (so close I am on foot, in slippers, mind you), and discover that they do not carry salsa (communist bastards!). I then make the decision to cross highway (why did the pajama clad woman cross the road? To get to the higher end gas station of course) and procure salsa from other gas station just minutes from closing time. All of this public humiliation for fountain pops, salsa, and almond snickers. Was it worth it? Yes, yum.