I was talking to Cherry the other day, and we ended up on the subject of her brother. “They’re kind of Outdoorsy People, aren’t they?” I asked about him and his wife. She said yes and was telling me about a camping trip they went on.
Anyone who knows me knows I am so NOT an Outdoorsy Person. My idea of roughing it is to stay in a hotel without room service and/or a mini bar. I told Cherry about the time that the non-BF decided we should go Car Camping.
Car Camping is about the wimpiest camping there is. You go to a state park, pull up to a camp site (along with five to seven other camping groups) and pitch a tent next to your vehicle. There is running water and the area is cleared off where you can have a nice, clean place to make your campsite.
I told the non-BF I would not go unless I had some “sustenance” (meaning alcohol). So we drive to this chicken place and get all this fried chicken, some potatoes and gravy, coleslaw, biscuits and a big ol’ bottle of vodka. Plus some chasers. Well, we got the vodka and chasers elsewhere, but wouldn’t it be great if chicken places offered those as well? I thought I was set for a relaxing, fun Car Camping weekend.
We ate lunch then cleaned up our little picnic table. The non-BF brings out the foldy chairs and he sits down. He doesn’t want a drink quite yet. So I sit down too, open bottle of vodka in one hand, glass of tonic water in the other. We’re talking and I’m fixing my drink and then, from out of nowhere, this fucking wasp buzzes past me and I start screaming and flailing my arms, showering the non-BF in vodka.
I calm down, he cleans up and we relax for a while. It’s getting dark, so we pitch the tent. Okay, so HE pitched the tent, I just
supervised watched. When we go to bed, I really try very hard to sleep but I keep hearing footsteps and rustling all around the tent.
Me: What was that?
The non-BF: Hmphuh. I’m trying to sleep. You should do the same.
Me: Didn’t you hear that? Is it a bear?
The non-BF: There aren’t any bears around here.
Me: It keeps walking around and around the tent. Oh my God, it’s Blair Witch Project! We’re going to die!
He stopped answering me, so I lay there all night, praying and hoping it wasn’t the witch who pulled out all those teeth because I didn’t want to have dentures at such a young age.
I think I got about one hour of sleep and woke up at around 6:00 a.m. Something was pinching my back. It itched like hell, so I shot up out of my sleeping bag and pulled my shirt over my head, while poking him.
The non-BF: I’m not in the mood. You kept me up all night with your witch whispers and squirming around.
Me: Not for sex, you moron. Something bit me! Look at my back, damn it!
The non-BF: Oh, it’s a tick. Here, let me pull it out.
Immediately, I start freaking out, run to his truck, accidentally set off the alarm and wake up the other seven campsites around us. All the while screaming, “Lyme disease! Lyme disease!”
Later that morning, when normal people were awake, we decide to take a walk around the lake. I’m swatting at bugs and generally complaining under my breath that I could be in an air-conditioned shopping mall, when I see what I think is a goose. I shout out some exclamation.
The non-BF: That’s a duck.
Me: It looks like a goose. No, wait, you are right. It’s just a really large duck. Here duckie…
The sweet looking duck turns all Linda Blair on me and starts chasing me, trying (sometimes successfully) to bite me on the ass. I run, screaming, right through a peaceful, Sunday morning worship service.
Me: Get this goddamned Devil Duck away from me!
I’m quite certain I heard the pastor say, “See, look what happens when you go to hell? You’re chased by large, crazy Devil Ducks all day.”
Glad I could provide him with a good analogy. I think everyone was awake again following that episode. You’re welcome, Camper Pastor.
The non-BF decides I’ve had enough of the outdoors (and probably wanted to leave before we were asked to do so), so we head out. We are halfway home and I realize I left my bottle of vodka at the campsite. Oh well, I’m sure the other people around us probably needed it after dealing with me as a neighbor.
P.S. The “witch”? was a squirrel. One that licked the can of beans clean that we left on the campfire. Industrious little fucker. I bet he drank my vodka, too.