Friday, August 07, 2009

I'm a creep. I'm a weirdo.

Ok. I’ll blog. Sorry for the delay. I bought $70 worth of pot this weekend and kind of lost track of time and space for a few days. Then I remembered that I have a month’s worth of work due today, so I’ve been working like a plantation slave since Tuesday. A plantation slave who creates textbook bibliographies instead of harvesting indigo and getting raped by massa’, but, you know, same thing.

So, I haven’t slept in 3 days, I have moderate to severe caffeine psychosis, and my work is due in a few hours. Perfect time to blog.

Also, I was worried that I didn’t have enough good camping stories to satisfy your eager little minds. It was a genuinely awesome weekend, but I don’t know if anything that random or hilarious happened. This is what I told ThePilot when he accosted me about my trip. Then I started listing some of the nice, normal things that happened over the weekend. Then I realized that they were not normal at all. Then I was scared that my sense of reality has become warped by my weird life.

Anyway. Here are some highlights:

1. TV lied to us.

TigerCat and I both craved Iced Caps on the drive down. We figured that we’d pass at least 6 Tim Hortons’ before we reached the camp site, seeing as how we had to drive through at least 6 crappy small towns in rural Ontario. But there were ZERO Tim Hortons’! ZERO! With each passing town we got angrier and angrier. Finally, as we passed through the last town, TigerCat slapped her hands on the wheel and muttered:

“What the fuck. I thought this was Canada.”

Then she just kind of stared blankly at the road and no one talked for a while.

2. Our tent lied to us.

TigerCat bought us an awesome tent on sale at WalMart. It was super cheap, sleeps 4, and in the picture on the front an entire family lounges comfortably in the canvas.

In reality, the tent was a hobbit hole. Our air mattress barely fit in it, we had to change one at time while lying down because it wasn’t tall enough to sit up in, and TigerCat and I slept basically on top of each other, like slaves in a slave ship (why does this post have a slave theme? I’m not a racist. Swearsies). Also, it rained on the last night. Our hobbit hole then transformed into a hobbit swamp. Not fun.

3. Kids are fun.
TigerCat, TheCrazy, TheCastrato and I all went to the beach on Saturday. It was a perfect sunny day and I enjoyed scandalizing the kiddies and their pot-bellied Dads in my whore’s bathing suit. We ate cookies and grapes and read our books until it was too hot to ignore the lake. The women ventured in while TheCastrato left to seek shade. The lake was refreshing but damned cold. We waded in just past our knees and then lingered there to acclimatize ourselves. And that’s when I felt a cold shot of water to my ass.

I looked behind me to see a grinning 3-year-old boy pointing a water gun squarely at my ass cheeks. He pressed the trigger and shot another stream of freezing lake water at me. Bingo: right to the ass. I looked the wee pervert in the eyes and said “stop.” He giggled. Pressed the trigger again. I looked around to see if there were any witnesses to potential toddler drowning, and I noticed the kid’s father watching us. Just staring, with his arms crossed over his burnt pot belly.

Perverts: it’s genetic.

4. Cooking is fun.
We don’t have a Coleman stove, but we do have a hibachi BBQ that we did most of our cooking over. On our last morning I was in charge of breakfast. I dragged the BBQ out of the dining shelter and the cooler out of the car. I found the package of bacons. Mmm. Bacons. The package was vacuum sealed. We neglected to bring scissors. Or knives. Fast forward 10 minutes of angry grunting and attempting to rip open the package with my teeth, and you find me squatting in the dirt, hacking at the bacon package with my grandfather’s axe. Great success!

During all this TigerCat was at TheCrazy’s campsite, boiling water to make coffee. Bless that child.

Next it was time to light the BBQ. I once again squatted in the dirt (like a slave?) and turned on the gas. I stuck the lighter into the grill and flicked the switch. I looked into the grill. Did the BBQ light? I couldn’t be sure, so I thought the best way to check would be to light it again. I once again stuck the lighter into the grill and flicked the switch.

TigerCat and I as wee tots, running through the grass on a warm summer’s day. My first bike – pink, with purple streamers on the handlebars. My first kiss, on the playground, from a boy in my class. These are the images I see when my life flashes before my eyes.

The flames shot about 6 feet in the air and knocked me backwards into the dirt. The violent sound of rushing fire could probably be heard across the lake. I gingerly patted my face. Eyebrows: check. Eyelashes: check.

I guess the BBQ was lit.

5. I’m one with nature.
Two more of our friends spent the night with us on Saturday, and we had a big campfire together. We chugged our coolers and beers, played guitar, and smoked some of my $70 worth of pot. We had singalongs which, in my high state, seemed like the most beautiful thing imaginable. We’re singing as a group! To an acoustic guitar! In the woods! I practically came in my pants when we broke into “Creep” by Radiohead. Oh, pot.

But with the drinking comes the urination, and we were a good 10 minute walk from the nearest shitter. Most people are adept at pissing in the woods, but I, sir, am not. I just can’t pee in anything but a toilet. It’s not just the actual mechanics of the squatting and avoiding your feet – it’s also mental. I cannot – cannot! – let go of my bladder in public. I’ve tried.

But this time something was different. Maybe it was the pot. Maybe it was the woods. Maybe it was the one-month dumpiversary since my breakup and my newfound strength. Whatever it was, I marched into those woods like a motherfucking star, found a log, took my pants right off, grabbed the log for support, and voided recycled vodka into nature. I did it 3 more times throughout the night. We all had our own pee spots. I liked mine. I had to climb down a bit of a slope to get to my log, but it gave me a sense of privacy.

The next day I realized that my private pee log was actually basically on the side of the major highway that runs past the campground. I was pantless and peeing on the side of the highway – four times.

That had to be a treat for anybody driving by.

I’ll leave you with this:



quackattack said...

See? The axe came in handy!

Also, kick that nasty Tim Horton's addiction before you come to Vancouver ... then you can take up straight crack, rather than mixing it with your coffee. ;)

I have recurring nightmares where I have to but can't squat and urinate in public ... does that mean something? Oh god ...

The Science Manly said...

"Have I ever told you, lately, that I love you?"

Here I am, sitting at work, smiling from ear-to-ear about your camping misadventures (because let's be honest, they ARE misadventures).

And, in my 1st year psychology course, my professor said that it is common for females to have public urination mental blocks. Look how you have evolved!

Pissing in public by the highway ... there's a stereotype there that I won't touch.

Anonymous said...

You should familiarize yourself with a little something known as the "pStyle" before your next camping trip:

However, I hesitate to post this as I will sorely miss reading about your adventures in public nudity/urination.