Today, I am being sneaky.
Yes, sneaky like the Hamburgler in McDonald’s playland.
You know, I don’t think that the Hamburgler is actually around any more. Maybe it offended Morally-Challenged Americans or Citizens for Horizontal Stripes or something. I dunno.
Anyway, the sneaky part. I’m trying to snark my way out of going camping.
“You know, Esteban,” I said, ever so non-challantly while watching ‘The Weakest Link’ last night, “I’d rather have new non-cat piss smelling carpet than go camping.”
“The carpet doesn’t smell like cat pee.” Ok, he’s not the dimmest bulb in the box, but not the brightest either. And perhaps working in the amonia entrenched house has gone to his mind, but indeed the living room does smell like cat piss, the world’s most noxious substance after Carson Daly.
“Yes, it does. And I’d rather get new carpeting.”
“In what room.” Because, you know, we have so many rooms that smell like cat piss.
“In here!”
“It’s not interchangable.” He sniffs, and continues to be in awe of the Weakest Link chick. I’ll give him that, she gives new meaning to Bitch. I really approve of her.
Later, still in stealth mode, I mention the fact that camping is “Marginally fun” and I’d rather be spending the weekend at home pottering around the house. Yes, I used “pottering”.
Some day really soon, I’m going to wake up and find that I’m now a 53-year-old woman with a mustache and cullottes. And it will not be a happy day. And in this vision of my future, my name will be Arlene. And Esteban’s will be Norm. And he’ll probably be dead. And I’ll be out on my lawn with a garden hose and a big floppy hat, yelling at the high school kids to stay off my lawn. Ok, well, I do that now.
His issue is that it’s “not going to be a production”. He then informs me that we must spend tonight “going through the camping stuff”.
Um. No. Tonight is the season finale of ‘Buffy’. I will not, would not, could not go through the camping stuff tonight. Uh-uh. Nope. ‘Buffy’.
“Well, we can’t do it Wednesday night because I won’t have much time and we’re leaving at one on Thursday.”
Then it hits me. We have to go through the camping stuff, purchase several camping type things (new air mattress’, bug spray, water jug, batteries, etc), go grocery shopping, PACK, do laundry to have clothing to wear, somehow figure out how to medicate the cat while we are gone, get the truck ready, and everything else. Before Thursday at 1. And I work in between then and now. Plus, Buffy.
And this is supposed to be relaxing.
Truly, this is only a “middle class white person” thing to do, I believe. Pick up all your shit, haul it out to bugland, freeze your white middle-class ass off, eat somewhat horrible food (either underdone or overdone and all “underside of the grill” tasting.) and sleep on the ground. And bugs. And ticks. And wetness.
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When I was 12, my hippy parents took us camping to Suring, WI. Chute lake, home of a natural water slide and multiple very small toads.
During this week, I declared that I was going to subsist on Oscar Mayer Bologna, Miracle Whip and Wonder Bread, because Mother was allowing us to vear from our normal hippy-dippy granola crunching lifestyle while we were on vacation. Paul, my mom’s boyfriend and Jerry Garcia-Wannabe, warned “Watch out, you’re going to smell like bologna. It’s so impure, it’ll come out of your pores that way.”
I scoffed at him. Ridiculous!
Three days later, I sniffed. Pure Oscar Mayer. Exactly like the package.
I’ve never eaten bologna since.
True story.
No good can come from camping.
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My sister called me last night, all Sargeant Joe Friday:
“Where were you yesterday?”
“Uhm… golfing.”
“Oh…. what are you doing on Saturday.”
“Um… camping.”
“Oh… we were going to ask you to the Bo Dean’s concert, but never mind.”
See. No good can come from camping, people.
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It is so damned cold today, I’m certain that the Powers that Be are simply giving me a warning about camping. “Think it’s cold now, bitch? Just wait till you get on OUR turf! Bwua haha haha!” The Powers That Be are dressed like Snidley Whiplash and twirl their black pencil-thin mustaches. They want to tie me up with white cotton rope and leave me on a railroad track.
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I want to be CatWoman. She’s got such a great wardrobe. Shall I wear the black leather cat suit today? Or the black PATENT leather cat suit? The v-neck catsuit? The black velvet cat suit? Mask or no mask? Stilletto heels or Doc Martens?
How did she do all of those crazy jumps in those heels?
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My MIRC nick is gone forever. {sniff} Oh, lolagranola, we hardly knew ye!
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I found my sunglasses. I KNEW that if I spent the dough for new sunglasses, I’d find my I’s. Oh well, know I have kewl Harley Davidson sunglasses as well as the I’s.
