The Peppermint Poot
Okay, here’s another story about my son, and those of you keeping tabs, nope, he’s still only got one down there. :) My son was 10 weeks premature, and we were very fortunate that after the initial two days or so, he was doing great. He just needed to grow so he could come home. Having a child in the NICU still can have its funny moments, like the baby spraying down the inside of the isolette the second you open his diaper, or how he’d put his little arms up like he was saying “YAY!” when I told him his breast milk was from the Mexican we had last night. Even at this early stage of his life, my son was already making his mark on the world. In those early days, he was living in the most expensive hotel room ever with the most expensive babysitting staff ever, in the NICU. His world was his little plastic isolette, keeping him safe and warm. After a week or so, I came into his room one day, and there was a small plastic ziploc bag taped on his isolette. I walked up closer to look at it, and I got the smell of peppermint. I asked one of the nurses what was up with that, and she said that my son had wicked smelling poop. The nurses would lay the peppermint pouch on top of the isolette, and smell that instead of his noxious diaper fillings. I rolled my eyes, and told the nurse that if I was locked up in a heated plastic box with my own farts being cooked in there, I might not smell that great either. Knowing how ridiculous hospitals are about charging 10.00 for a tylenol, I began to wonder how much a piece of gauze with peppermint oil was covered for on the insurance. They had recently upped him to a richer type of formula, and apparently, his colon was rebelling in the only way it could. The NICU nurses encouraged both of us to participate in my son’s care, and the next time he had fudged a huggie, it was my turn to change him. Part of the deal was to put the newly filled diaper on a scale and weigh it, so they could see how much he was putting out. It wasn’t until I pulled the diaper out of the isolette that the stench hit me. Okay, I understand the peppermint pouch now. My husband looked on almost proudly as they put my son’s used diaper in a BioHazard bag and put it in the trash so it could no longer foul the entire NICU. My son had driven a respiratory therapist, and cat scan technician, and a resident from the room with a warning to the nursing staff that something has died in my son’s pants. Soon my son was moved to the intermediate care unit, ready to go home in about a week. No matter how many times they changed his formula, his poo still smelled like a skunk that crawled out the ass of another dead skunk. They took numerous samples and tested it, trying to figure out what this stinky child’s problem was. No answers there, his poo just stunk like a champ! Still, the diaper-filled BioHazard bags raised the eyebrows of the janitorial staff as they emptied the trash each day. They’d look at my son, wondering if his butt was having a nuclear meltdown or something. The doctors at this hospital worked in teams, so your doctor would change every few weeks or so. The doctor doing his discharge examination was a young, completely gorgeous Austrian doctor. He asked if I had any concerns about my son before discharging him, and I said no. I could tell that he was uncomfortable with the next topic he had to bring up. Now, imagine the voice of Arnold Schwarzenegger (it’s nawt a tumah), saying that the nurses expressed a concern about the odor of my son’s stools. He said they tested him, and no problems were found. Dr. Gorgeous looks over his glasses at me, and asks me if I am concerned about dee odah of his poooo. I said not really, and I added that no one should expect it to smell like roses. He’s fine now, and he doesn’t clear a room when he breaks wind. Although, it must just be the nature of the male psyche to flash a little devious smile after tooting loud enough for everyone to hear. Even when he sleeps, he farts and does this little sigh, like he’s all pleased with himself. Of course, my husband still jokes that all that nasty gas probably melted his other ball. He’s alright now though- there’s no need to call the HazMat team to pick up his diapers.
Pheasant Hunting With Tackleberry
When I was young in Pennsylvania, many of my friends in school hunted. My dad liked to go deer hunting, and since my mother deprived him of a son, he got me out there with him. I had to take the hunter safety course and all that jazz, and every fall I looked forward to venison steaks and kielbasa. I agree with hunting if you eat what you hunt and you’re not just doing it for the joy of killing something or a trophy. Years ago, there were tons of Ringneck Pheasant running around our area, and couldn’t throw a cat without hitting one. They were a common sight in the fall, usually leaping out of the high grass on the roadside and flapping right in front of your car, startling the heck out of you and nearly making you swerve off the road. My cousins and I did hunt pheasant around the area, since back then, farmers didn’t totally clean off their corn fields like they do now, and they were very plentiful. Into the story enters Dean. This kid lived three doors down from us. He was hopelessly addicted to hunting and any and all sorts of guns, as most boys were back then. He was a raving idiot, and most of the time acted like his cheese had long since slid off his cracker. When he started yelling at one of his friends, the whole block could hear his big mouth, calling them a horse’s ass. The next thing you’d hear was his mother yelling at him to watch his mouth. He bugged us for years to go hunting with us, and after we finally ran out of every excuse we could think of short of telling him that pheasants carried leprosy, we grudgingly let him come along. His personality always reminded me of Tackleberry from the Police Academy movies, but with a really bad Amish boy haircut and a pair of front teeth that looked like they belonged on a Clydesdale. He came down to my house early that Saturday morning, and we headed down to my uncle’s farm. Each of us had bagged our limit in no time, except for Dean. We’re not sure, but we think he was genetically incapable of keeping his voice down. He’d scare the bird off, then curse out loud and drive the rest into the neighboring county. As the morning went on, Dean was getting completely furious that he hadn’t gotten a bird. Finally, I suggested that we split up into pairs, since Dean’s mouth was driving me insane. My cousin Brandon and I split off into the woods before they could agree, leaving my poor cousin Stuart stuck with the big mouth. Brandon and I wandered around for a while, sneaked a cigarette he’d taken from his dad’s pack, and walked around the woods, enjoying the peace. Brandon gets the brainy idea that we should help Dean get a pheasant. I ask how, since Dean didn’t seem to be so adept at the hunter gatherer part of his nature. Brandon looks around and takes one of his pheasants from his vest. He walks out to the edge of the farm road, and uses some rocks and a stick to prop up the dead bird so it looks like it’s just sitting there in the grass. Across the road, we can hear Stuart telling Dean to just shut up already. We dart over to them, and Brandon musters up a grand performance, acting all excited, telling Dean there’s a pheasant up at the farm road, and it would be an easy shot. He advises Dean to be quiet and follow him. Stuart and I hunkered down to get a good view of the action. Brandon motions to Dean to crouch down, and suddenly Dean spies the bird. He gets down into a commando position, like he’s about to pull the pin out of a grenade with his teeth and fling it. Brandon looks over at us and rolls his eyes at the overly dramatic show. Any second we expected him to pull out some camo paint and smear up his face with it. Dean takes forever aiming- and finally, he gets off a shot. The bird jumps, but is still sitting there. Brandon says he thinks Dean missed and tells him to shoot again. Dean lets go, blasting this poor dead bird. The head was about blasted clean off and I think he even gave that bird a couple new buttholes in the process. Dean excitedly runs over to his quarry to examine it. It was just a barely feathered ball with two yellow legs by the time Dean got done playing Die Hard with it. He carried that thing all the way home and proudly thrust it in his dad’s face when we got back. His father asked us if Dean shot it after it went through a wood chipper, but we all kept silent. Mr. Hamm, Dean’s dad, told me years later that Dean had insisted on cleaning it and made his mom make it for him for dinner that night. He said it was really funny to watch Dean sitting there, proudly enjoying his mangled lump of pheasant, and hearing him crunching down on the occasional piece of bird shot he missed while cleaning it. Dean never did ask us to go hunting after that.
My Mom Mooned 50 Truckers
Nuff said.
Vacations when I was a kid were not vacations at all. My father, trained from years of being in the army, would wake us all up at 1 am, so that we could get out of the tri-state area before the rest of the world’s alarms even went off. It was fun- we felt like we were getting away with something, being up and getting into the car while everyone else was sleeping. By the time they woke up, we’d be in Virginia somewhere. We were kept on a rigorous schedule the whole time, getting up at 6 every morning, breakfast at HoJo’s and every day was planned out. Even relaxing by the pool was a scheduled activity. Years ago, before the days of I-95, the trip from Pennsylvania to Florida was quite an adventure through the south. One year, my dad decided that he was going to pull us out of school for a bit and we were taking a trip to Florida in April. Wow- for someone from PA to be able to escape and go somewhere where the temps were over 50 degrees that time of year, that was pure heaven. We anxiously watched the weather forecast, because snow was predicted in our area. It didn’t look too bad, my dad decided, so we piled into his gigantic brown Thunderbird and off we went. We didn’t make it too far. By the time we got about 100 miles from home, the snow was drifting and much deeper than back home. It was 3 am, and the snow would drift the roads shut as soon as the plows would go through. We crawled in traffic for a while, until we finally came to a standstill. The trucks ahead of us were not moving. The snow was too deep, and we had to sit. My dad would run the heat for a little while, then he’d shut the car off and we could hear the wind howling outside, and the whoosh of the drifting snow brushing up against the car. My mom and dad were the ultimate in preparing for almost all contingencies when we went on vacation. My dad had to make good time, or he took it as a personal failure. When we were little, my father certainly could not be bothered to stop and see Alligator World or The World’s Largest Hairball or even a dog with three peckers, much less stopping for my 4 year old sister’s bladder breaks. They had a a little light blue plastic toilet that they would put in the rear foot well of the car, and if my sister had to go, she would go in that. When we stopped, my mom would empty it out. I became a champion of holding it, because no way in hell was I gonna squat down in the back of the car and go in that stupid plastic toilet. Well, we had been sitting until about 6 am, and after morning coffee and 5 hours on the road, my mom had to go-bad. We were sitting on the highway, just past an exit ramp, but there were no buildings in sight, just a whole bunch of people in cars and trucks lined up down the ramp and the overpass who were stuck just like us. Men have it easy- dad just hopped out and washed down the guard rail, and hopped back into the car. My mom tried to hold it a little longer. The wind is still whipping outside, and you could tell she didn’t relish the idea of getting out of the car. My teeth were practically floating, I had to go so bad, but I was not going to budge. Finally, my mom cannot stand it any longer. She gets out and shuffles to the front of the car. We watched from inside, and just as she got to the front bumper, a huge blast of wind whips her coat open and blows right in her face. She glances around, and reaches back to lower her drawers, and assumes the position. Right as her bare butt was kissed by the winter wind, all of the truckers started flashing their lights and honking their horns at her, obviously enjoying the show. Windows were being rolled down and cat calls and whistles filled the air. My dad nearly peed himself laughing, watching her lower her head in shame, and there was absolutely nothing she could do in mid-stream. Isn’t it dumb how when you have to go so bad like that, everything kinda tenses up, and all you want to do is finish, but it takes forever? Mom finally finished and started to pull up her pants. Just as she was bent over, a gust of wind blew up the back of her coat, and now all 50 of those truckers got a full view of her bum. The honking and light flashing started again, much to my dad’s amusement. He couldn’t resist honking the car horn a couple times at her too. She promptly flipped my dad a nearly frozen middle finger. The snow plow did finally come, and we made our way to Florida. To this day, that is still one of my dad’s favorite stories-how mom flashed about 50 truckers in Virginia.
The Flaming Florist In The Lavender Van
One of the other loveable characters in my neighborhood growing up was the local florist. My hometown has lost a little of its uniqueness since he passed away and the flower shop closed. His name was Mr. Paar, and he was a trip. He was always around when I was a kid, tooling up and down the streets of our town in his big lavender delivery van. Yes, I did say lavender. Now, let me just say that everyone in town knew very well that Mr. Paar was indeed gay, and we were okay with that. I actually thought that was pretty cool for a small town in the 70′s. Oh sure, the old timers were a little scared of him, but they all gave him their business. Everyone knew his story -how he did have a partner, and they lived together happily for many years. Mr. Paar’s partner died in a tragic car accident, and he just never found anyone else. He was a very kind and good-hearted man, despite his unique personality, and he was a joyful little guy. Half of the fun was calling the shop. He would answer the phone “Hello, Paaaaaaar……” Now, there’s gay, and there’s parade gay. This guy was totally, banner-waving-skipping-down-the-street parade gay. To top off the complete look, he had his wild wavy hair dyed a shade of brown that is not found in nature, and he had one of those pencil thin little french looking mustaches with the tips waxed straight out. He kinda looked like David Niven on really good quaaludes. He was an awesome florist though. Everyone in town had their weddings done by him. He had two Persian cats that hung around with him in the shop all day. Honest to God, their names were Fufu and Gigi. Gigi was the weird one…she had a meow that sounded like an old woman smoker clearing her throat. When my aunt got married, we all went up to Paar’s with her to help choose her flowers. Just hearing his voice was enough to make you crack up-kinda wispy and floaty. He would almost dance around the shop as he showed her the archways and candlestands he had that she could use for the wedding, like they were prizes on a game show. My mother nearly peed her pants when he was showing my aunt a hairpiece that hooked on to her veil with orange blossoms on it. He put it on his own head and did a little Vanna White twirl for us. My aunt made all her selections and believe me, nothing could prepare us for Mr. Paar on my aunt’s wedding day. We were all at the church early, and along comes Mr. Paar’s bright lavender van with his own name emblazoned across it in pearl white. He leapt out of the van, and I watched my grandmother’s jaw drop as she spied him- He was wearing a bright lavender polyester tuxedo, with wide pointy lapels. If a stiff wind hit him, he probably would have taken off. Under the jacket was a wide lavender cummerbund, and a white shirt with giant poofy ruffles down the front, tipped in lavender. More giant ruffles peeked out of the ends of the jacket sleeves, and the cuffs were finished off with giant porcelain cufflinks with lavender roses on them. His little mustache was waxed to pointy perfection, and the crowning touch was a lavender damask bowtie, and the white vinyl shoes. He quickly went to work, almost dancing about the church, putting out all the arrangements, and twirling around them like a ballet dancer. He finished in the church, and walked down the hall to help my aunt with her headpiece. He flounced his way into the room, and held out a white box with her headpiece in it. It really was beautiful, and the scent of the orange blossoms quickly filled the room. My aunt took it out of the box and put it on her head. Immediately, Mr. Paar was not pleased. “Oh, no no no no deary…thtop, thtop…it goes this way.” He arranged it and played with her hair for about 5 minutes. The way he was playing around with her hair, I was waiting for him to hike her bra up for her too. Then he grabs her veil and literally twirls in a circle around back of her and puts it on behind the flowerpiece. He primps and preens around her for a few more minutes and good thing he left when he did, because we were all about to burst out laughing. He does a little dramatic pause in the doorway, and says, “Alright, my dahlings, I’m all finished in the church, tho I’m off to the retheption…tah tah everyone…. Oh, and mumsie, I have your corthage right here dearie…” My grandmother rolled her eyes and tried to stay at arms length while he pinned it on her. He blew out the door, and we all just stood there in stunned silence, until my grandfather said in his thick Scottish brogue, “Jeeesus Etch Christ, he’s queerer than a three dollar bill.” He made a comment to my grandmother about how he’d have decked Mr. Paar if he’d have touched gram’s bosoms, and she said she thought Mr. Paar was more interested in what Grandpop had under his kilt. My Grandfather was Scottish through and through, and one thing you quickly learn is that genital arrogance comes standard on every Scotsman. Pop made some comment about what was under there being way more than he could handle. The wedding party made its way down the hall toward the sanctuary, and there was Mr. Paar, waiting in the lobby. In an Emmy worthy performance, he whisked his hand to his mouth, and tears welled up in his eyes. He scurried out the door like he always did, hopping into his lavender van and headed off into the sunset. When Mr. Paar passed away, my mom said that even Mr. Hughley, the funeral director, put special order lavender drapes in the hearse windows, and his floral displays were the biggest display of lavender my hometown had ever seen. The funeral home couldn’t hold all the mourners who came to pay their respects. He was buried in his beloved lavender tuxedo too. That would have made him happier than a two-petered puppy.
My Parents…And Other Curses They Put On Me
My mom at one of my parent teacher conferences, most likely.
You’ve already read about the genes curse in our family. But there is another, much more heinous curse that children inherit. Your parents store up all those stupid little whiny comments and habits they used on you, and somehow download them into your brain matter. No matter how you try or swear you’ll never use them, they come popping out at the most inopportune moments, like a fart in church. My mom’s favorite one was, “You just wait till you have kids…you’ll find out.” Find out what? She never did tell me the answer to that one. And at what point in time do you suddenly lose the ability to get a toy out of its packaging? When exactly did that happen? Somewhere, we lose the agility we once had to beat the pants off our kids at the video games, and they can restore the hard drive on the computer quicker than Steve Jobs. I swore to God I would never cut my own kid’s hair, yet here I am, with a scissors and a comb. I have to say it hasn’t been a complete disaster so far. Only once did my son move in mid-clip and end up with sideburns like Mr. Spock. Okay, and is this my mom’s Canadian showing, or did anyone else’s family have a name for that stupid little metal thingey on an older style car door that you pulled up or pushed down to lock and unlock the door? Did anyone else on God’s green earth call that thing a “snick”? I still tease my mom about that- of course now, her car has the remote transponder, and I tell her to put the snick down when she locks it-it’s still good for an old fashioned eye-roll. My dad’s favorite line was “I’ll give you something to cry about”. Yes, my father did the “don’t you make me stop this car”, thing, but only once. That was because my sister was pushing his buttons, he threatened, she didn’t take it seriously, and he really did pull over. She never admitted to it, but we’re all pretty sure she crapped herself right then and there. Other oldies but goodies included “Don’t make me come up there”, and “You just wait until your father gets home.” Funny, but my mom never really realized that the last one almost never got the desired effect. Think about it- your dad comes home from a crappy day at work, and your mom says, “guess what your daughter did, blah, blah, blah…” the second he comes in the door. Unless it was a major felony in our house, like dinging up the white woodwork, dad usually came upstairs to your room, rolled his eyes and said, “Did you do XYZ?” You blubber out a yes, and he would say, “just don’t do it again,” and he would go back downstairs, sit in his chair and turn on the news, which was all he ever wanted to do in the first place. We grew up in a small row home, and my father was an expert at draft detection. There was a door at the bottom of the stairs, and that door had to be closed at all times. My father could feel a draft like nobody’s business, probably even from two towns over. He’d be on his way home, like 2 miles away, and feel a cold draft and probably say to himself, ” I bet them damn kids left that door hanging open again.” He would stop what he was doing and look around like he just smelled a bad smell. ”Where the hell is that cold air coming from?” Then one of us would get heck for leaving the door to the upstairs open a fraction of an inch. And, did you know in my house, a fraction of an inch counts as a door hanging wide open? I think my father’s idea of hell is to be duct taped in his lazy boy, and a nice cold draft blowing in the door and he can’t get up to shut it. One of my mom’s common ones was “What happens when you bug me?” That one is totally my sister’s fault. She had a bad habit of just following my mom around, saying, “Mom. Mom. Mom. Mom. Mom…” Finally my mom would scream “WHAT?!”, and my sister could then be sure she had mom’s full attention. One of my personal favorites that my mom used on my sister was “You’ll live.” My sister was a drama queen extraordinaire. She’d come running in the house with a cut on her knee and beg to be rushed to the ER. My sister got so used to mom’s response that she’d have her little spaz, look at my mom’s Marge Simpson-esque grimace, and say, “I know, I’ll live,” and just walk away. I am proud of myself for a couple of things though. Firstly, I had a son, so my mom was unable to pass that hideously furry winter hat with the giant puffballs at the ends of the hat ties, and the matching furry muff that looked like a strangled piece of possum road kill on a string. My sister had the only girl, so it’s happily all hers. I already have one, very well hidden away picture of me wearing that thing, sitting on the lap of a completely deranged looking department store Santa. Even he looked like he felt sorry for me in that hat and muff and the stupid tights that the crotch never fit right. The other one is that I can honestly say, so far, I have NEVER spit in or licked a tissue and went to wipe anything on my son’s face. I hated that with a passion, and when I told my mom it was gross, she’d always say, “Mom spit has no germs.” Uh, that’s not the point mom. IT’S SPIT. I have threatened my mom that I’m going to have “THIS is what happens when you bug me.” put on her tombstone. Either that, or “don’t make me come up there.” And, most likely, we’ll find a small rock and prop my dad’s casket lid open with it, so he can lay there for all eternity wondering which one of his kids left that damn door hanging open again. Then with my luck, I’ll be hearing his voice from the grave, saying, “Where the hell is that cold air coming from?” Actually, I am just a bit jealous of my sister. She got her revenge on them in a way. She has two kids, one is 15 and one is 12. The 12 year old is the poor sap who got the furry hat. My mom was sitting in my sister’s living room, griping about how her back was bothering her, and the pills they were giving her weren’t helping. Lauren, the 12 year old, looks up at my mom and says, “You’ll live.” At that moment, I think my sister had both the urge to hug the stuffing out of her daughter and pee herself laughing at the same time.
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Camping With The North American Whiner- Part III
So remember kids, only you can prevent people like this from camping.
When we last left our heroes, they were scooping up burnt offerings for breakfast out of the brand new dutch oven. I honestly have no idea what kind of trouble they got into for the next two hours, because after we cleaned up the site and breakfast stuff, we headed out for a hike and to give our aching sides a break from laughing. Magic word of the day- crawfish. When we returned, John apparently was in hot water again. Audrey the Hun had just noticed that their non-Smokey Bear approved campfire last night had thrown up sparks that had burned small holes in her brand new tent. She was railing on John how no wonder her stuff got wet last night and her suitcase is ruined, yada, yada, yada. Okay, to turn that grin on your face into a chuckle, honest to God, it was a freaking designer bag too. The Eddie Bauer I’m Much Too Rich To Be Out Here collection, I’m sure. I think they decided to chicken out on lunch, because they had cold sandwiches again from the cooler incident left-overs. Deb the Snot comes trotting over to our campsite, asking where the closest Starbucks is. Like a smart ass, I tell her the closest one is over two hours away. She stomps back to her site, disgusted. I nearly shot coffee through my nose when my husband whispers to me, “I’ll give you directions if you have a map, OH, that’s right, you used it to start a fire this morning.” The rest of the day was fairly uneventful until Audrey discovered that all her underwear was at the bottom of the suitcase, and under the suitcase was a huge puddle in her tent. This threesome looked like they had all been tied to the back of their SUV and dragged up and down the road a few times. John’s once cute little cargo shorts were now smudged, wet and torn at one pocket, and his wife looked like Medusa’s little sister and (sounded like her too). Audrey was busy wrenching stuff out of her tent and throwing it in the car. She declares that she is not sleeping in that piece of crap tent and she is sleeping in the car tonight. She throws a pile of clothing and her sleeping bag in there, punches the door lock button on the hatch and slams it-hard. John has had just about enough of these two, and he makes a decision, loudly informing half the campground that he will go to the store, get some food for the fire tonight, and then they’ll go get Audrey a new tent and some (&^^%$ coffee. Suddenly, the dreaded question is asked. Where are the keys to the car? John looked around in his pockets, and then realized that Audrey was the last one to take the car out this morning for the eggs. Audrey’s face goes white as she looks back at the car. They were in her sweatshirt pocket, which she has just thrown into the car and locked it. The three of them run to the car and helplessly peer in the windows, jerking up on the door handles. At that point, John had what I think would qualify as a complete and total conniption. His voice flew into this higher range, and his arms were waving. His face was multiple shades of red and going purple. Veins were pulsing and popping out all over his skinny neck. His eyes were wide and watering, and tiny blob of spit was forming in each corner of his mouth as he screamed, making him look like we needed to call Animal Control. I know this is hard to imagine, but this was before cell phones, so he stomped off down the road to the office to call someone. About a half hour later, two pickup trucks come down the road. One was the locksmith, and the other was Donna, the campground owner’s wife. The locksmith went to work, and the owner’s wife was talking to John and the girls. John’s hands are still flailing, only he’s talking more softly now. I could tell by the looks on their faces- they had been evicted for being loud and disturbing half the campground. I don’t know who complained, but if you send me your address, I’ll come and hug you. John tried to argue with her, but there was no convincing Donna. She got back in her truck and went back to the office. The locksmith opened the car, John bitched at him that what he charged was highway robbery, and Audrey was silently digging through her pile of clothes in the back, looking for the keys. That was about the only thing Audrey did quietly all weekend. John and Whiney-wife go back to the tent and gather up their things. None of their spiffy new things were packed back up in the boxes and bags- everything was just tossed into the back of the SUV in a pile. Tent stakes, ropes, sleeping bags, and coolers were quickly dragged across the ground and thrown into the car. Things got really funny when the back of the SUV was starting to get full of hastily thrown camping stuff. John would heave something in there, and it would fall back out. John would yell, “F*&% it!” and throw it back in again. The back was full as it could be, and he checked his pocket for the keys and slammed the hatch- right on two tent poles that were sticking out. He opened the hatch, screamed f- it again, and looked disgusted at the dangling broken tent poles. “F*(& it!!” The site was finally cleaned out, and they all took one last look around. Defeated, they climbed into the SUV. As they turned the car around and drove away, we noticed that a piece of tent fabric was dangling out of the passenger side of the car, dragging the ground, and the two broken tent poles were still hanging out of the back, dangling helplessly. We were actually a little bored the rest of the weekend- but we did enjoy the peace. Final Score, Pennsylvania Wilderness, 3- North American Whiners, 0.
Camping With The North American Whiner- Part II (aka-If Smokey Bear pooped in his jeans and no one was there to hear it, does it make a sound?)
On the surface, no big deal right? Uh, notice the air conditioner in the window of the blue tent? Redneck ingenuity people. We can rig anything with some plastic and duct tape.
Okay, I left you hanging right at the point where Sir John The Whipped was trying to light a campfire with a bic and a LOG. I came over and gave him some fatwood and some kindling. Now, as the illustrious late Paul Harvey would say, “the RESSSST of the story”, or at least part II. We’ll see how far we get. This story was too funny to leave out the details. Magic word of the day- nut. Now, I have been camping long enough to know about that old Native American proverb- An Indian builds small fire, huddles close, stays warm. White man builds a huge fire, has to stay away and still cold. Well, next door, they had a freaking bonfire that probably had the astronauts on the space station saying “Houston, we have an imbecile…”. Even my dog was cowering on the far side of our campsite. By now, our supper dishes are put away, and we are relaxing by our small, normal fire, waiting for the peach cobbler to finish baking. Funny, but I can hear Audrey complaining that she can’t believe that’s all the firewood you get for that kind of money. Well, jeez, they were chucking wood on there like they were firing up the boilers on a luxury cruise ship. Suddenly, there is an acrid smell wafting across our campsite. My first inclination was to look down where our shoes are- nope, nobody’s melting. The smell was coming from next door, and I was begging the Good Lord not to make me go over there again. John was being ordered about the campsite, getting beers and food and sweaters and whatever else the ladies were complaining about. Then I peered through the bushes and saw the source of the smell. A coal had jumped up from their fire (small wonder), and landed on the seat of one of their spiffy new chairs, which was stupidly placed, like, 2 feet from the edge of the fire. The chair was in a melting frenzy, giving off all kinds of foul odors. I was just about to open my mouth, and Deb sees the flaming chair. She is screaming in that voice that is making me want to pee again. ”Oh my Gawd, John! Put it out! Oh my Gawd, Oh my Gawd!!” By now, half the damn campground has probably heard that something is burning. In a panic, John runs to the first place he can think of where there is water. He grabs one of the coolers, opens the lid slightly, and tries to pour the melted ice water on the chair. Never mind the little drain spout on the end of the cooler- he thinks it’s a way bigger emergency. The lid slips out of his fingers, and food, drinks and eggs come pouring out all over the chair and the ground. Now I really do have to pee, because I’m laughing so hard. The chair looked like a grocery store had spontaneously combusted on it, dripping with egg yolks, gatorade and deli meats. It was sitting in a puddle of water, ice cubes, egg shells and apparently the rest of the makings for tomorrow’s breakfast. Silence falls on their campsite, but not for long. The next thing we saw was the blackened remains of the frame of the chair being tossed out at the road by their trash bag. Cursing ensues as they try to salvage what they can from the cooler dump. Holy crap, I’m thinking, and these people have to get through the rest of this holiday weekend together? One or more of them will surely be dead by then. We close down our fire and the site for the night and go off to bed in our tent. I lay there in the darkness, cringing every time I hear them throwing another log on the fire. Finally I fell asleep, serenaded by the drone of Debbie’s incessant whining… I was startled out of a sound sleep about 2 am by the sound of the weather radio. A severe thunderstorm warning for our county. We knew the forecast had called for rain, but now we were in for some heavy weather. I quickly went outside, and battened down anything that was loose, pulled down our tarp cover over the eating area and tucked in the ends all around the table, and put some wood in my car to keep it dry for the morning. ( I was a damn good Girl Scout, let me tell ya!) I hunkered back down and listened to the thunder coming closer and closer. Thankfully, the wind and lightning was not severe, but we had a tremendous downpour during the night. At one point, I could feel the water rushing past the tent as it flowed away from the site. In the morning, I rubbed my eyes and looked outside at our site. Everything was still there, so I got the dry wood to start a fire and put the tarp back up. I glanced next door, and there is Audrey and Mrs. Whiny-pants, trying to start a fire with wet wood. Yep, I quietly stood by my nice warm breakfast fire, put on the coffee pot and silently gloated my ass off. Finally, they won’t wait any longer, and they yell for John to get up. The other tent rustles, and John steps out the door. Apparently, during the night, the rain had washed much of the fallout from the cooler incident up against their tent, and John lets out a string of curse words as his foot slips on a ziploc bag of bacon. I don’t think John had intended to do a split that early in the day, but there you go. He refused to do anything until he had relieved himself, and stomped off to find a private tree, still sore from the split and walking like he had a major load in his pants. The two girls finally did get a fire going, and only later did I find out that the girls had no stuff to start a fire, and they had gotten it going by tearing the pages out of John’s atlas that they found in the car. This was before the days of GPS devices, people. We found out because the pages they burned were the ones John needed to find their way back home to upstate New York. Duhhhh…. It was like watching a bad Woody Allen movie, with John whining, “What the F$%*??! Why didn’t you burn California, or New Mexico? We’ll nevah go there….how could you be so dumb, oh my Gawd…” We quietly sipped our coffee while they got out the brand new dutch oven. I watched as Audrey the Boisterous loaded the dutch oven with some butter and eggs she went out early this morning and bought at the camp store. She threw some pieces of cheese slices on top, and for a time, it was actually smelling pretty good. Suddenly her gleeful nature turned into extreme scary anger when she realized the eggs were sticking to the bottom of the dutch oven, big time. Um- I was enjoying my coffee and the entertainment way too much to share with her that you’re supposed to season the cast iron before using it. My husband silently shakes his head and watches as she is scraping the bottom of the dutch oven with a metal spatula like she was taking paint off a porch. Thoroughly pissed, she declares that the eggs are as ready as they are going to be. She orders John to bring it to the table. Unfortunately, the rag he picks up to lift the pot off the fire was soaking wet from the rain, and the steaming rag immediately burns his hand. He yells, and we hear the pot hit the ground. Over the bushes, we see a few chunks of eggs with big black spots flying into the air. We eat our French Toast as they hunker over the dutch oven, spooning out burnt eggs like a bunch of ravenous raccoons. Okay, stay tuned for the exciting conclusion of Camping With The North American Whiner, Part III. Will our haggard group make it through the weekend? Will I go over there and strangle the crap out of Deb? Or will someone else get to her first? Tune in and see!
Camping With The North American Whiner- Part One
Move over Ethel! I'm driving!
My husband and I are hard core campers from way back. And I’m not talking about the kind of camping where you drag some big-ass metal thing with wheels into the woods, park it on a nice level spot and put out the lawn chairs, and greet the neighbors 5 feet away while hooking up the satellite dish crap. I’m talking in a tent, sleeping on the ground, and no coffee till the fire is built, peeing in a hole in the woods, in the middle of nowhere kind of camping. When we lived in Pennsylvania, we were lucky enough to have a campground less than 20 minutes from our house. Whenever we felt like escaping from the family, we would leave town, pack up and haul our stuff 20 minutes into the wilderness. I would go over and set up on a Friday night and have dinner cooking by the time my husband showed up. The very back of the campground was our favorite spot, and the owners always gave us that one if it was open. It was the farthest away from the other sites. One July 4th weekend, it was really busy there, and our usual site was already taken. We had the next one down, and there was another site right next to it. I was peeved when I saw we’d have neighbors within earshot, and I just hoped they wouldn’t be too loud or obnoxious. Little did I know that they would provide us with a steady source of entertainment all weekend long. The brand new SUV pulled up at the site next door, and out popped two women and a man. The first thing the man does is gripe that now there’s mud on the car. They walk around the campsite for a few minutes, looking completely lost and way too well dressed for the occasion. The man, meanwhile, is unloading bag after bag out of the SUV. We knew this was going to be fun when the first suitcase was hauled out of the car. It only took about 15 minutes of them fighting to find out that the man’s name was John, and one of the girl’s names was Audrey. After another two minutes of bickering, we learned that Audrey was John’s sister, and the other woman was John’s wife. Her name is Deb and she can whine like a champion. Her high pitched voice would just seek out your spinal nerve and make you feel like you had to pee. They began to set up camp, trying to find a spot to pitch the two brand new tents they had. For almost two hours, they fumbled with putting up the tents, and finding a spot that didn’t put a rock in the middle of someone’s back. We began to giggle at the ritual of one of them crawling in, and watching the tent wriggle and lurch while they rolled around in there checking the floor. Eventually they got settled, and all the baggage went into the tents. You could tell immediately that this was their first camping trip. All the equipment was still in their original boxes, and they were happily removing labels and plastic wrap from the new dishes and the camp stove. The new, freshly folded chairs were put out by the fire ring, and the women were setting up the kitchen area on the picnic table. A brand new cast iron dutch oven came out of a box and was set by the fire area. Wow, I never realized that Martha Stewart had a camping collection at Kmart, or at least it looked that way over there, everything was just perfect. I told my husband if they start pulling stuff out of labeled jade colored bins, I’m so leaving. I turned my attention to the ribs I had sitting in the cooler with dry rub on them. It was time to make the campground drool. I got the fire going and laid our grate over the fire. I threw some soaked wood chips on the fire, and the ribs were cooking away low and smoky. I can proudly say I have never cooked a hot dog on one of my camping trips. We are more gourmet than that! I guess I will have to swallow my pride now with a two year old, but he already likes ribs. Anyhow, our neighbors chickened out on their first night in the wilderness by bringing sandwiches from a local convenience store. Audrey and Deb used the dinner opportunity to bitch about everything, and giving John his to do list. Two or three times during dinner, I heard them say that whatever we were cooking smelled so good. Dinner for them was over, and John attended to his list. The first thing was starting a fire. He looked around again, lost. He uttered a few curse words when he realized he had to go all the way back down to the camp store for wood. John returns with the wood, and throws it down by the fire. We finished our dinner, and I was cleaning up the dishes for the night. Through the bushes, I see John, hunkered down over the fire ring. I nearly doubled over laughing when I saw that he had a huge log lying in the fire ring, and he was holding a bic lighter to it, waiting for this gargantuan hunk of wood to just burst into flames like a Duraflame log. He kept burning his hand when the lighter top got too hot. I felt sorry for him, so I took some kindling and a burning piece of fatwood over for him. Stay tuned for Part II of our exciting story, when we hear John say, “What the f***?!”
Sometimes You Feel Like A Nut…
Okay, screw your courage to the sticking place, because this is so not going where you think it will. Magic word of the day-worms. I don’t even know why I’m posting this, but it was at the top of my edit list staring at me like a red-headed stepchild. I have got to say, I do really feel sorry for men-having to endure the doctor’s appointments that involve the ‘turn your head and cough’ moments. One of my favorite comedy shows did a cute sketch on that once. The kid is at the doctor, and the doc says, ‘turn your head and cough’. The kid does as he’s told, and the doctor says, “just as I thought, you let a stranger grab your balls.” I have a two year old son, and as of his last doctor’s appointment, he has one, uh, man ball that is a little “shy”. It’s there, but it just doesn’t feel like coming on down and joining the party. The pediatrician asked me if I had noticed that one of his testes wasn’t descended. I said that I did notice that the palm tree looked a coconut shy. He asked if I felt around to see if it was all the way up or partly in there. I smiled and said, “They arrest people for that, don’t they?’ He assured me I was allowed- hah, hah. He told me that this can happen when they jump into cold water, which immediately conjured up visions of Seinfeld’s George Costanza yelling “It’s shrinkage!” I told him that my son wasn’t really into jumping in and out of cold water in November. The doctor was concerned, so he sent us to a pediatric urologist to have things checked out. You cannot imagine how mad I was when we had driven over an hour, waited an hour and filled out half a ream of paperwork, only to sit in the exam room another half hour waiting for the doctor. Finally, he comes in. We talk for a little, and I tell him what’s up- and, not down. So, the doc says, “Have you tried yourself to get it to come down?” By now, I’m tired and pissed off. I look at him and as seriously as I could muster, I said, “Well, we did try holding his nose shut and blowing in his mouth real hard.” He stops for a second, probably wondering if he should get child services on hold. He realized I was kidding, and laughs this wacko laugh, like he’s never heard that before. He lays my son on the table and starts poking around in his groin. My son looks at me half terrified at the crazy laughing guy prodding him. After about two seconds, the doctor says proudly, “there it is!” like he just found a third testicle on him. Hey, as hard as it looked like he was poking him, I’m not surprised another one didn’t pop out! After all this, and God knows how much money, and a total of 15 minutes, not including laughing at my joke, he says we’ll wait a year and see if it comes down on its own. Hmmmm…and this complicated set of instructions couldn’t be given over the phone or something? I have to say, we are very lucky with my son. He was 10 weeks premature, and other than his testicular shyness, he is in perfect health. It’s frustrating though when you have to go through all the appointments only to have them say he’s fine, pack up my “one nut wonder” and send us on our way. So, all we can do now is sit home on New Year’s Eve and wait for the ball to drop. (Okay, you can roll your eyes and groan now.) :)
Where’s the Squeaker on A Chicken?
Here's the nice serene shot before he tried to make the poor little chick peep really really loud.
Lately I have really been bitten by the old fishing bug. The days are getting warmer, 6 in the evening no longer feels or looks like 10pm, and it’s just too nice to be inside. When I get the chance, I try to get my 2 year old outside to blow off some steam. You know it’s time to leave when he had picked up every old beer can on the shore and he brings you a lighter that says something I’m not even sure I can type here without falling into another category that isn’t family. He had neatly stacked about 40 rocks into a pile and even gathered up some trash he picked up. I hope the Army Corps of Engineers appreciates my son’s efforts. The lighter hit the trash can, and I checked his pockets for mealworms or other creatures I don’t want in my dryer, and we were off. My car had been parked under the tree overnight at our house, and it looked like all the birds in the neighborhood had a contract out on me with all the poop on it, so we went off to the car wash. I stopped for gas on the way, at this little small town hardware store/feed supply/farm supply/building supply/grocery/bait shop. The old man knows me, and every time I go in there, he says “What did you break now?” We live in a 100+ year old house, so we are preferred customers there. I love that place. They have at least one of everything ever manufactured, and you’ll have to blow the dust off to see the price tag. Oh, and upstairs, they have furniture and appliances. If need a doo-jiggy for your whos-a-whatsit, they have it there, somewhere and only the owner knows exactly where.I wove my way through some pot-bellied farmers griping about the price of cigarettes, and paid for my gas. My husband told me that the local farm supply store had an ad in the paper this week that they would have the chicks and ducks there this week for Easter. I decided I would take my son down there to see the animals. We get to the store, and it was a battle to get my son past the rack where they have all the metal toy cars and tractors. I curse them for this…they know my kid will be glued the second he comes in the store. We pick out a car, which I now have to hold because he has seen the white bunnies they have in the first tub. I try to corral one over so he can pet it, but that wasn’t happening, so he had to be content to watch their little wiggling noses from across the tub. We walked further back, and they had a tub of baby ducks, and three tubs of cute little baby chicks. These have always been my favorite, and I was really close to bringing some home with me. I’ve always loved chickens and one day I’ll have a coopful again. My son was immediately drawn to the sound of the chicks- my mom gave him one of those thoroughly annoying stuffed toy chicks for Easter last year that you squeeze its belly and it peeps. The boy finally killed it by seeing if it would swim in the dog’s water dish. He knew that sound, and happily peered over the edge of the tub to look at the little chicks scrambling around. I picked one up and held it so he could pet it. He started out great- he was very gentle, stroking it on the head with one of his fingers and smiling. Then both hands. Before I knew it, he had this poor little chick and was squeezing the crap out of it…he was trying to find that little thing in his belly that makes him do that peep peep thing! Well, the chick was doing the peep peep thing, but it was more like chicken-speak for “SECURITY- GET ME THE HELL OUT OF HERE!” I got the chick away from my son and did a quick check to make sure I didn’t have to put the chick’s eyes back in its head or anything. He was fine, and I let him scramble back with his friends. I quickly sprayed some hand sanitizer on his hands and we beat it out of there. Oh, wait I forgot the best part. I didn’t notice until I got back to the car that somewhere in all the mayhem, that chick had pooped on my shoe. Okay- touche.
