So, my sister Morgan and I went camping last week. Camping in Washington is great, because there are still less mosquitoes than in the Wisconsin camping trips of my childhood. Just to be safe, I brought the giant can-o-DEET, because I am done reproducing anyhow (WARNING! May melt nylon, small pets, and many brain cells.)
This is the first time I have soley cooked over a fire. It’s pretty empowering. I came back and saw Emeril trying to BAM IT UP on a stove and I just laughed at him. Controlled fires, food that is evenly cooked on all sides and in the center, and non-warped cookware are clearly for wusses.
I think I had a better time than Morgan did, even though it was her birthday trip. She was pretty out of her element, what with not having music and only sleeping 10 hours a night. By the third day her poor cold miserable ass was dragging, and that made me realize that teenagers really need their fourteen hours of sleep.
One thing I forgot: it is unwise to leave a major city if you have pink hair. I thought I was all free here, with my pink and orangeness, but what happens is that you actually become a prisoner to Liberal Land. This is what happens on the Outside: children are shushed in your presense, some people won’t talk to you at all, and some people just say really stupid things.
Man with Interesting Teeth and Mullet at Gas Station, smiling devilishly: “Wow, that’s some bright hair you got there.”
Me: “Yes, it makes it much easier for my HUSBAND to spot me in a crowd.”
We had some good tuna, bought right off of a dock. It only rained a little. We hung out at the beach and had long sessions reading All the Presidents’ Men together. The passenger window got stuck partway down on the second day, so Morgan rode back with the window open, and we blasted the heat.
I got over my fear of porta-potties, and Morgan found hers. I am sympathetic; I think having a spider fall at you as you are unrolling the toilet paper would freak me out too. Much PBR was consumed, and after we ran out we bought tallboys of Budwiser. I would declare the trip a success. I think I am going again next year.
Too Much: The surfer in the next spot telling us to “get some exercise.” My real life is jogging and little girlie and school, so of course I am going to drink and smoke all week.
Not Enough: Money for seafood. Sun. Blankets.
Perfect: The amount of beer and Justin Timberlake in US magazine.