Camping

We're going camping this weekend.

Yuck.

I hate camping. Like I hate it hate it. There's nothing about it I like. Well, I take that back. I like the campfire time with the s'mores and the way my kids faces look in the firelight. I like the way they get spooky-ooky when we tell scary stories and then they see shadows and hear twigs snapping in the dark areas outside the fire. I also like snuggling in the tent with all of us crammed in with our air mattresses and sleeping bags and extra blankies and dollies and Missy, my pwecious, of course. She's a good camping dog. I also like to watch the girls get really excited when they catch fish. And of course I like the memories we make.

But that's about it.

Lord A'mercy, it's SO much work. I have to go shopping and pack up all the food and bake all the goodies and load them up in baskets and ice chests before we go. I have to make lists and lists and lists of things not to forget like first aid kits and flashlights and bug spray. God, don't forget the blessed bug spray. I spray everything in sight. I hate bugs. I will hold the can in my hand and spray bugs as they fly anywhere near me. Better put an extra can of bug spray on my list. Plus I'm terrified of ticks. Terrified. Like I bellow at my children not to run in the tall grasses. "Do you want to get Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever????" For goodness sakes. And I diligently have my pwecious doggie dipped once a month. Never fail. Baths once a week. (Well. She's an inside dog. Do you expect me to invite ticks into the house and serve them tea???? Well, do you?)

Then. Jason comes home and climbs the ladder to the garage attic and throws all and sundry of items at me. Tent. Sleeping bags. Air mattresses. Plastic boxes of dishes and matches and lanterns. I stand there screaming at him to "Freaking quit throwing it at me! Just hand it to me for godsakes!". But he never does. He's up there laughing at me. I just know it.

Then we have to cram it into our car and then when we get there we have to unload it and set it up. Then when we leave we have to take it all down and cram it back in. Then when we get home it comes out again and then I get to throw stuff at Jason as he puts things back up in the attic.

And don't even talk to me about the laundry when we get home.

Plus there is nothing appealing to me about wearing flip flops whilst I shower and taking my toilet paper with me when I go to the facilities. I also hate waking up in the morning when it's forty degrees outside and there is no smell of coffee percolating and I know Jason is going to have to get the fire going before we can even begin to discuss caffeine.

Sigh.

I hate camping. Did I say that?

But everyone else in the family LOVES it. So I begrudgingly accompany them once a year at the beginning of fall. It's fall. So we're going camping.



On another note. It's a beautiful rainy fall day here. Lightening and wind and soft thunder and everything. It's great. I have a chicken on the stove and it's smelling up the house with lovely goodness and the girls are out of school on Fall Break and have Barbies strewn from one end of the house to another. My dog keeps walking on them and knocking over little tables that have been carefully arranged and meticulously placed in certain spots. Then all hell breaks out and the sound of wailing and gnashing of teeth echoes through the hallways and Missy frantically runs and hides under the bed.

She's wearing a sweater today. Well, it's chilly. She looks lovely. The dog. Missy.

Next time you iron try putting a teaspoon of liquid fabric softener in your squirt bottle of water that you spritz your clothes with. Sometimes I put lavender water in there too.