Wednesday, May 31, 2006

ThePeach moves apartments during a heat wave: rambling, pointless post ensues

I moved today. I no longer live in an apartment with the approximate size and ventilation of a tent. Not one of those massive tents with separate rooms so that mom and dad can make sweet, tender love while their marshmallow-covered brats sleep – but 1 of those 1-person dome-shaped tents that TigerCat and I used to banish our mom to sleep in when we went camping because she had night terrors. Yes, we might have been cruel, but picture this scenario:

It is pitch black. It’s the middle of the fucking forest. There are wolves howling and owls hooting. The wind is blowing branches into the side of the tent. It’s cold. It’s raining. You have to pee but you don’t want to get up because it’s cold and raining and the shitter is half a km away and is a hole in the ground full of other people’s feces. And you are scared. So, so scared. Suddenly:

ThePeach: AH! AH! AH! AH! (and, let’s be honest: *wets herself a little*)
TigerCat: AH! AH! AH! AH!
Peach-Cat Mom: Wha? Shmeh? Whazrong? Girls? Why did you wake me up? Stop talking and go back to bedzzzzzzzzz……
ThePeach: *sob*
TigerCat: *whispers* Do you have to go to the bathroom? Come with me?
TigerCat: *sob*

And thus our mother was banished to the pup tent.

I don’t know why we ever camped at all. TigerCat always got so many bug bites that she became feverish and ill, I always – ALWAYS! – got strep throat, somehow, every time I ventured near the woods (I will never forgive my mom and sister for leaving me in a feverish coma for an entire day so that they could go to the beach – when they came back, I was sobbing gently into my germ-infused pillow). Our mom usually managed to injure herself assembling various bits of camping “gear”, such as a tent pole to the eye, which would cause her to swear and burst into tears, and then yell at us for laughing at her (being a single mom is a hoot!). And someone usually got some sort of rash. Yet we went every fucking year. Usually more than once.

When I was five, on one of my very first camping trips, I thought it would be a great idea to pick up fire. Literally. In my hands. One speeding trip to emerg and a morphine injection to my ass later, you would think my mom might decide that camping really isn’t for me. But no. She hates me.

What the fuck was I talking about?

Oh yes, I moved. Today. My apartment is huge.

I think that was the point of this story.



TheNurse said...

I love your new place. I think I love it so much that I can't wait until i'm homeless and get to crash on your futon. Roomies again!

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