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

Its not what you think.

For those of you who have children, and perhaps a few of you who do not, it is a thing of ceaseless wonder the random tidbits that fall out of their mouths. Programs like “Kids Say the Darndest Things” have capitalized on kids’ fumbling in the adult world of the spoken word. One of my favorite parts of parenting is observing this phenomenon. For example, my youngest son is convinced that a hooker is the device on the back of a tow truck (I’m never telling him otherwise, oh there isn’t a wreck we pass by that doesn’t elicit a chuckle or two from the front seat). As my oldest son has progressed from adorable toddler to adorable child, these choice little nuggets of confusion have come few and far between. As his naivety has dwindled he has begun to doubt my ultimate wisdom on all things true. In fact, he has even gone so far as to question my math skills (which are above par for the average elementary student, I would bet money on it).So, imagine my surprise when, during a routine ball toss in the front yard, the boy turns to me and asks if I know what a muff is. The conversation proceeded as follows:
Me: I certainly do! A better question is how you know.
Boy: I saw it on tv.
Me: [silently wondering how boy deciphered parental locks on tv] Oh yeah?
Boy: Football
Me: [silently figuring out why men are so obsessed with football] So, what is a muff?
Boy: It is when a punt is never in possession by its receiver (he then acts out scenario).
Me: [silently thanking parental control gods of Comcast (who are still greedy, unforgiven asses)]
I pondered this conversation for a few days then turned to my husband and asked him if he knew what a muff was. He gave me the I-thought-you-knew-me look until I rehashed the little instruction I had received. Unable to believe this neat little factoid, he googled (I would never google the word muff, really, honest to Comcast). He then explained the difference between a muff (hehe) and a fumble. This difference is predicated on the rules governing the retrieval of the ball after it has been muffed or fumbled. I then, with the seriousness that the situation called for, asked my husband if the player who retrieves the muff from the field could, by virtue of definition, be called a muff diver. I amused the hell out of myself, I really did. Football is now my favorite sport, tight-ends, endzones, wide receivers, muffs, sounds like a movie on Cinemax.
Meanwhile, back in Gotham: Last night was grocery night, oh the laughs, the tears. Anyhow, as husband was squirreling food away in the fridge, he came across a tray of uncooked meat well passed its prime. He tossed the nastiness in to the garbage while I made mental note to remove it to bin. Alas, I forgot. This morning I happened upon my beastly German Shepherd dog munching away on a slab of rancid meat. I verbally reprimanded the nasty bastard, snatched meat away (with a paper towel mind you), and placed back in bin (oh you silly woman). I then proceed upstairs. Came down over-burdened with 200 lbs of dirty laundry to see dog gazing remorsefully at me over EMPTY meat tray. Thirty minutes later I am sponging rancid meat vomit off of the carpet while opportunistic Chihuahua

competes with me for dibs, getting a lick in here and there. As if that weren’t enough drama for a Monday, I undertook the task of cleaning out from under my bed. I know you are all thinking “you shamless slob of a woman, what are you twelve, still shoving things under your bed”? Well, just to let you know the only things I nudge under the bed are the occasional random shoe or slipper. What I have is a ferret.

This sneaky little devil has chosen the underside of my bed as its hording grounds. I found the following things:
7 bottles of water in various stages of empty
5 water bottle caps
5 tubes of martian matter
7 tubes of acrylic paint
1 bottle of spray Formula 409 (jeepers, this bottle is actually bigger than the ferret)
1 bottle of hand lotion
1 bottle of rash cream
1 tube anti-itch cream
1 container of holiday cookie sprinkles
1 bottle of after bath body spray
2 dryer sheets
1 G.I. Joes
3 Hotweel cars
1 tennis ball
I love my pets.