CAMPING WITH LESBIANS
Camping is hard.
And then you die.
Don't worry. My sis does search and rescue. Her dog will find you. Your dead, dead, dead and decomposing body.
Don't let people fool you. Those backpacker mags at checkout with their lovely photos -- all lies. Like the Harper's or Woman's Day selling you on thin thighs and youth serum or one-pot gourmet wow-your-family meals. I've tried those recipes. My opinion? Hit-Miss. In the end all anyone really wants is mac and cheese. And wine. Wine makes everything better.
Okay. I just read things so far. I sound harsh. I'm not against camping. Truly.
Let me rephrase. You know what's hard? Camping with men.
(Pause.)
Some of the BEST times I've ever had camping? With lesbians. Really, lesbian campers: THEE BEST. I don't mean that in any stereotypical sort of way. (Just like the opera, DIVAS are everywhere.) But here's the thing with my lesbian friends: First -- they're women -- so I don't have to provide tired, I'm-dirty (not in that way) sex to some man's tent-erecting abilities.
Second, my lesbian-chick friends, they can -- and do -- COOK! See? Two tedious chores off my list already. "I'll bring the booze!"
Lesbian campsites are tidy. And they've usually broken ground near the bathrooms.
"Wow!" I'll say, "We so think alike."
I get it. Men... handy body-fluid eliminator tool at their fingertips. But you'd think after all these millennia they'd have some clue.
I get it. Men... handy body-fluid eliminator tool at their fingertips. But you'd think after all these millennia they'd have some clue.
Way back in the before-times, Neanderthal man, peeing all around cave entrances to keep predators at bay proudly asks for sex later: "See what OG did you?" Post-coitus, our poor, put-upon Neanderthal woman goes outside to relieve her bladder (who wants UTIs, right?) and while squatting there in her compromised position... well, you get the picture. If bones are found, Neanderthal man laments his wife's inability to master the art of peeing semi-upright. If bones are not found, he forever assumes she has run off with someone else...possibly that handsome homo erectus fellow two caves down.
She just can't win. Since the beginning of time, both urination and low male self-esteem have plagued the woman condition.
Camping Men can be a little clueless.
One of my most memorable married-life camping trips was actually just before actually being married. I was in that let-me-impress-you stage of love. You know, that one where you pretend you are so much cooler than your true camper self. To kayaking you say, "Heck yeah. Let me at er!" Or that motorbike your beloved found at a dump, "Sure, I'll try!"
Love. It clouds the judgment.
My Beloved and I set off for the mountains. Bathrooms? CRAP, no. We're in the wilderness, man... we're going back to nature in every sense of theeee word. By the time we leave here we're gonna be wearing chipmunk pelts.
It wasn't until the drive home that we saw it. The "Don't Pick Up Hitchhikers" sign. (Woah. Talk about your hook-arm-massacre scenario.)
She just can't win. Since the beginning of time, both urination and low male self-esteem have plagued the woman condition.
Camping Men can be a little clueless.
One of my most memorable married-life camping trips was actually just before actually being married. I was in that let-me-impress-you stage of love. You know, that one where you pretend you are so much cooler than your true camper self. To kayaking you say, "Heck yeah. Let me at er!" Or that motorbike your beloved found at a dump, "Sure, I'll try!"
Love. It clouds the judgment.
My Beloved and I set off for the mountains. Bathrooms? CRAP, no. We're in the wilderness, man... we're going back to nature in every sense of theeee word. By the time we leave here we're gonna be wearing chipmunk pelts.
It wasn't until the drive home that we saw it. The "Don't Pick Up Hitchhikers" sign. (Woah. Talk about your hook-arm-massacre scenario.)
"Well, that could have ended badly," and we drove off to breakfast.
Farts. What is it about men and farts?
My son... beautiful, handsome boy. We were short on male leaders. I volunteered to chaperone a Boy Scout experience. Man, you could smell our tent a mile away. And it wasn't just gas. Every child to a one had taken some secret challenge. They were not showering.
Farts. What is it about men and farts?
My son... beautiful, handsome boy. We were short on male leaders. I volunteered to chaperone a Boy Scout experience. Man, you could smell our tent a mile away. And it wasn't just gas. Every child to a one had taken some secret challenge. They were not showering.
Yes. Showers were available.
Little bars of Ivory.
It was a Boy Scout Summer Camp facility! Mess hall meals. KP duty. The place fronted a lake. Thank God! One of those high snowmelt affairs. If not for the swimming and occasional dish soap, I'm sure I would have died in my sleep.
Okay. That's boys. Men in their twenties. What have I forgotten? Of course. My father.
Dad's camping always leaned minimalist to its structure. Toss a few items in the station wagon. "Don't forget your sister!" (For some reason we were always forgetting our youngest, perhaps explaining this whole search and rescue bit of her life.)
Okay. That's boys. Men in their twenties. What have I forgotten? Of course. My father.
Dad's camping always leaned minimalist to its structure. Toss a few items in the station wagon. "Don't forget your sister!" (For some reason we were always forgetting our youngest, perhaps explaining this whole search and rescue bit of her life.)
Armed with nothing but Army blankets, Bisquick and granola bars, our little selves were the very model of efficient survival. And Oh, the places we'd go -- snoozing near ghost town cemeteries... amusement park parking lots... cow pastures. One particular told-to-me experience involves my dad, sister, brother and cousin camping their way to the Cascades and back. Something about sardines... crackers... then setting up their little cots in bear-infested territory.
Is it youth? I mean the youth of human men? Do men mellow as they age? Become a little more precautionary? Realistic?
Today my ex-spouse and his wife travel in their Eurovan, often resting at KOAs.
Do age and time sort of work out the kinks? You know, kind of a year-upon-year thing, persistent and inevitable... a little like giving in to dirty camper sex -- just so everyone can get some sleep and go on with the business of living.
Imagine my surprise upon leaving home and after years of "roughing it," my parents and siblings come camping their way to visit me with small trailer in tow. What? Was it me all along? Was this how they REALLY felt?
Is it youth? I mean the youth of human men? Do men mellow as they age? Become a little more precautionary? Realistic?
Today my ex-spouse and his wife travel in their Eurovan, often resting at KOAs.
Do age and time sort of work out the kinks? You know, kind of a year-upon-year thing, persistent and inevitable... a little like giving in to dirty camper sex -- just so everyone can get some sleep and go on with the business of living.
Imagine my surprise upon leaving home and after years of "roughing it," my parents and siblings come camping their way to visit me with small trailer in tow. What? Was it me all along? Was this how they REALLY felt?
I can just see it: My pre-1978 folks, juicily eyeing camper catalogues...
"Look, Kath! This one has an indoor potty!"
"Oh, nice. Let's wait till Karen's gone," sipping Diet Pepsi all evil-like...
Kids are expensive. And... then you die.
As each child ditched the nest, my folks' campers evolved... a little larger... more palatable... almost small apartments on wheels. Really. And they have an entire life someplace near Yuma I know nothing about.
Perhaps camping is different now. With men, I mean. After all, it's been some time since I've done such with one. Younger Me was way too compliant. I see that now. I didn't want to be demanding. I wanted to please. But asking for what you need?
My bad.
I now see that I have not been a very good communicator with men. We are not talking camping anymore.
Maybe all along it has been me. From the very beginning.
Camping... some tent in the dark... the sounds of nature's predators. I become distant... my ancient self... cave woman. I suddenly realize just how frail and vulnerable and -- yes -- dependent I really am. How scared I am. Really. About things that have nothing to do with camping at all.
I didn't know how to communicate these things back then. My young self. My married self. My camping-with-men SELF.
And so I'd just lay there. Awake in tents. Deep into the night... thinking: "Damn you, you last can of beer."
Kids are expensive. And... then you die.
As each child ditched the nest, my folks' campers evolved... a little larger... more palatable... almost small apartments on wheels. Really. And they have an entire life someplace near Yuma I know nothing about.
Perhaps camping is different now. With men, I mean. After all, it's been some time since I've done such with one. Younger Me was way too compliant. I see that now. I didn't want to be demanding. I wanted to please. But asking for what you need?
My bad.
I now see that I have not been a very good communicator with men. We are not talking camping anymore.
Maybe all along it has been me. From the very beginning.
Camping... some tent in the dark... the sounds of nature's predators. I become distant... my ancient self... cave woman. I suddenly realize just how frail and vulnerable and -- yes -- dependent I really am. How scared I am. Really. About things that have nothing to do with camping at all.
I didn't know how to communicate these things back then. My young self. My married self. My camping-with-men SELF.
And so I'd just lay there. Awake in tents. Deep into the night... thinking: "Damn you, you last can of beer."