they that camp together…

“So hey there, have you been missing me?  Yah, I know.  I’ve just been suuuper busy.   Uh-huh.  I’ve just had stuff.  Super Important Stuff.

That’s code for, I’ve been such a loser and can’t get my shit together so I’ve just been hiding out on my couch eating a lot of cheetos and that squirt cheese from the can.  It’s been super awesome.  Seriously, I don’t know what my deal is.  I have never had writer’s block in my life, but lately I just plain suck ass at trying to put a sentence together.  But enough about me.   I really need to tell you about CAMPING.

So the Hubbs and I haven’t been camping together in  ummm… forever.  We certainly haven’t been camping with JORDAN.  Dude, that kid would take a dirt shower then roll around in the dirt to dry off and then try to clothe himself in a dirt wardrobe.  He was made for the dirt.  Camping… totally his gig.  He had a blast.  And Elle, she just hid out in the camper and did girl stuff and then roasted marshmallows and went back into the camper.  Whatevs.  She was hanging with her gal pals.  Both kiddos LOVED the tubing on the lake and all the usual boating activities.  They had a blast.   That’s totally not important.

The real fun came when the kiddos fell into a sun and marshmallow-coma induced sleep and the grown ups finally got to play.  There is just nothing like the crisp mountain air and smell of a campfire to make grown ass people lose their freaking mind. This is why I love my friends.  And am highly entertained by their friends.

Our first night in the great outdoors, we so pissed off the skinny bitch librarian “next door” that at half past quiet time she marched her happy ass over to our site and proceeded to inform one of our bunk-mates {ummm yah, I have no idea what that means.  It’s Swedish for “we camp together”} that it was indeed past quiet time and our fire was too bright.  She was being forced to move her tent to escape the bright light of the fire.  ERRR… WHA?  Quiet Time = No Fire Time???  I so did not read that on Smokey the Bear’s hat.  And really, it’s a camp fire.  Not the Burning Man.  Close your eyes.

{What is up with me that I am constantly pissing off my neighbors?!?  At least this bat-shit crazy woman got up and moved the next morning.}

Night Two:  The whole evening can be summed up by watching the following video.  I realize this is crappy videography or whatever but it’s shot with an iPhone, in the middle of the darkest of nights, being spot-lighted by a drunk with a flashlight.  The hero of our story is sporting a head lamp (AKA head lice),  purchased at our local sporting good store (AKA Tri-State) {when you see the video you’ll understand why you might care about this.  or not.}  We spent the entire dark time of our weekend having our retinas burnt out by the LED-ness  of this damn light.  It was only befitting that a song be sang in its honor.  Ladies and Gentlemen… meet Bobby Light.

Night Three.  There are so many things to be said about Night Three,  our last night in the woods.  Day/Night Three provided a Camping Trip Survival Guide that I will carry with me on all future expeditions.  Please hear me when I say this… no matter how much you offer to pay me, I will never reveal the source of my knowledge.  What happens in the woods, stays in the woods… sort of.

  1. It’s not a good idea to tell your Hubbs it’s his turn to be the campground drunk {and therefore idiot} at 10:00 am.  This will set your whole day off to a really, really interesting start.  Most Hubbs won’t make it to see dinner time.  Those that do,  will wish they hadn’t.
  2. There’s really no point whatsoever in packing real food of any kind for those who are legal to drink  (except for the makings of Reece’s Peanut Butter Cup  S’Mores).  We drink our meals here, bitches.  ‘Nuf Said.
  3. Assholes who show up to your campsite bringing beer to “apologize in advance” for their forthcoming behavior might be nice deep down inside.   Assholes who only bring beer for the men and ignore the women are just as we thought… assholes.  When they notice that your men passed out hours ago and show up to your campfire for some friendly chit-chat, consider flicking hot coals onto their pedicured feet and running into the woods.  It’ll be more pleasant than anything the next 30 minutes might have to offer.
  4. It’s never appropriate to bring up one’s step-dad’s saggy balls around a campfire.  If you accidentally do, it will provide unending entertainment for the rest of your “bunk-mates” as they talk about skinny bitches and saggy balls all weekend.
  5. It should be seriously considered that one brings along some “pocket cash” for emergencies.  Emergency cash, in this instance, is reserved ONLY for those times when  one’s Hubbs is on the verge of being taken to the clink for “disturbing the peace” {Peace, what peace?  I haven’t seen a moment of peace since we’ve been here!}  and certain Green Jeans (AKA Park Rangers, AKA the Po-Po) need to be bribed to save the night.  Said emergency fund MUST be kept in the pockets of the females only, so we can determine if we really want to bribe your asses out of the clink or not.  God knows we are far too well-behaved to be disturbing anyone’s peace!

There you have it,  folks.  Camping might be good fun, but it is definitely NOT good, clean fun.

I don’t care what they say, four inches is a lot.

Last night, I woke up at three o’clock, in the a.m., to some asshole’s dog barking like a freaking machine gun outside my window.  So me, being the super Matlock that I am, goes traipsing downstairs to see what all the fuss was about.  About halfway down I realize, “look genius.  you’re about to get your ass killed Texas Chainsaw Massacre style.  go get your hubbs to handle this shit.”  (I know, I  swear like a sailor at oh three hundred.)

Suddenly, it dawns on me, “I think that is my freakingdog!”

“Hubbs.  Wake UP.  I think that’s Eva outside waking up the whole freaking neighborhood!”

After a lot of mumbling and moving SLOWER THAN FUCK while that dog barks like a maniac! he finally rolls himself out of bed and moseys downstairs to see what the matter is.

Meanwhile, in my brilliance, I hang out the bedroom window to see if I can see her (she is midnight black so it’s a little difficult at oh three hundred with no moon.) and there she is.
Barking.

And Barking.  No matter how many times I whisper-yell “SHUT UP, EVA!  THE BITCH LADY IS GOING TO CALL THE COPS ON YOU AGAIN!” she just won’t shut up.

Finally, Hubbs gets her inside and settled down and stumbles back to bed.  He’s asleep before I can even ask him if there were lawn gnomes running wild our what?? So then I lay there for an hour pondering all sorts of craziness.  Like, remember that one time, at band camp… I mean church camp…. there were those guys that had a jalapeno eating contest.  Can you imagine the fallout from something like that?  Ouch.

Then this morning I go downstairs and complete my morning ritual of opening all of the curtains and what do I find but our glass slider open about 4 inches.  FOUR INCHES??? Four inches is no accident, people.  Four inches is a LOT.  (Well, in this particular case, 4 inches is a lot.)

Four inches is “Hey, I was just going to come into your house and try to steal your stuff- and then realize you have no stuff, and get pissed off and kill you in your sleep- but then Kujo started barking and acting like she was going to gnaw my leg off since you have forgotten to feed her the past three days so I  ran off down the street and she barked at my ass until I was long gone. That’s what four inches is, folks.

My bad-ass black lab/boarder collie mutt will eat your leg any day.  My drugged up on NyQuil loser of a husband might not always hear you coming, but Kujo will.