Recently I was contacted by a woman named Linda, who sent me this message: "Is it bad luck to have your husband's name tattooed on your body? I would be interested in your insights on this matter.” Now, I have never answered a reader’s questions before. But since I really am an authority on everything, I thought, what the heck.
Well Linda, if you need an opinion on matters of the heart and body art, you have come to the right place. I am not sure if luck has anything to do with it. I think you should be asking yourself if it is really a good idea. There is a good chance a spouse’s name will change, especially considering the high divorce rate among carnival workers. With that being said, I know that it is hard to talk people out of doing seriously deluded things once they have their mind made up.
I would recommend testing the relationship with a rub-on tattoo first. If the union lasts longer than the rub-on art then you’re golden. Ok, well maybe not. But, at least you have a good idea of tattoo size and placement.
Now let’s skip to the part where the relationship goes south. I have never met anyone who has gotten a spouse’s name tattooed on their body where the relationship didn’t end up in the crapper. So what do you do after the fact? How do you salvage your body art? How do you salvage your dignity? There are several things you can do.
You could go the traditional route and have the name tattooed over with an elaborate tiger or dragon or mermaid.
You could find a new spouse with the same name as your ex.
You could find a song with the name in it and write the lyrics around the tattoo. Names that work well with this method are: Sarah, Gloria, Lola, and Carrie. Names that do not work well are Habib, Juan-Carlos, William Robert Petit III, or Lashonda.
Add words after the tattoo, like “May they rest in peace” or “Clips his toenails in bed” or “Has a hairy back,” etc.
It can be covered up with a big band-aid or a cast.
Have the tattoo artist make a censored bar to hide it.
Think product placement. Advertisers want new outlets for their products: "Ben" can become "Ben & Jerry’s." "Tim" can become "Timex." "Joe" can turn into "Joe’s Crab Shack," etc.
Get up every morning and scribble the name out with a sharpie.
Create a diversion by writing something around the tattoo. "Sue" can become “Dr. Suess,” for example. When people ask about your smokin’ tattoo, tell them he was your favorite doctor.
Take the spouse’s name and invent a word. Say your ex is named "Stan," change it to Flackistance. Come up with a bizarre definition and use it as a talking point to meet new people.
So Linda, I have given you several useful tips, but what if you have your spouse’s face tattooed on your body? Add horns and a mustache, of course.
What if you have “Mom” tattooed on your body and you break up? Well, this is more common than you think. First off, if you are breaking up with your mom you have more issues than even I can help you with (cue banjos). Just stick to unfriending her on facebook.
So there you have it. Live and let live. Love and don’t commit to a tattoo. Just get a T-shirt that says “I’m with stupid.” Or, carry around a vial of blood or a lock of hair, those things can be used much more effectively.
Come back next time when I answer the question, “How do I train my husband to put on pants and stop eating macaroni from a pan held over the sink?”
Showing posts with label Killing your spouse. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Killing your spouse. Show all posts
Monday, February 28, 2011
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Beauty and the Beast
The other morning I woke up to my husband's eyebrows attacking me. I know that I don’t usually tackle these hard-hitting subjects, but there is a time to joke and a time to be serious, and seriously his eyebrows were scaring me.
I did not know how to broach the subject with him so I started off gently by saying, “What the heck is going on with your eyebrows?”
He said, “Oh, that. Well, I am not sure. I go to bed looking like my normal self and when I wake up, I have the eyebrows of an eighty year old.”
“Really?”
“Really. I’m not sure what to do about it. I try to keep them trimmed back with scissors but they keep getting longer and wirier and stranger.”
“Have you tried plucking them?”
“With what?”
“A tweezer.”
“I don’t have a tweezer on my Leatherman. In fact, I don’t think I have a tweezer in any of my tool boxes.”
And that conversation is when I realized, not only are men and women different, but men know nothing about grooming. So, I decided it was time for my husband to learn about the wonders of self-maintenance.
Again, I introduced the subject of grooming, “Honey, have you ever heard of the term metro-sexual?”
“Yeah, isn’t that just another word for chick?”
“Actually it means the strong, sensitive man that is not afraid of taking care of his appearance.”
“Sounds like a wuss to me.”
“Why don’t you want to spruce yourself up? You want me to look my best, why wouldn’t you want to look your best?”
“It is like this: Women are already attractive. You can polish a Porsche, and it looks even better, but even if you polish up a rusty old pick-up truck, it still looks like a rusty old pick-up truck.”
“But don’t you care about how you look?”
“I mean, I don’t want to look like Frankenstein, but I don’t have to look at myself all day, so I would have to say, not really.”
“Aren’t you worried what other people think?”
“Eh . . . no. I mean, take the bearded lady at the Conoco, she has a five o’clock shadow by 9 a.m. but I look at her and think, well at least I am not the bearded lady. I am the bearded lady for other people. They look at me and think; well at least I look better than that guy.”
“So you are a humanitarian?”
“Basically.”
I was not going to give up, mostly because I believed that my husband would feel better, if he looked better. And, I was afraid if we didn’t do something those eyebrows would strangle me in my sleep. So I went to the store and bought him a tweezer.
I noticed the eyebrows had been tamed a bit recently, so I asked, “How is the tweezer working out?”
“You know, it isn’t bad. It hurts like the dickens but at least you know what is coming, not like that nose-hair trimmer you got me for Christmas.”
“I didn’t even know that you used the nose-hair trimmer, what is wrong with it?”
“Oh yeah, I use it. If I don’t it looks like a toilet brush is hanging out of my nose. But anyway, sometimes I stick it up there and everything is ok, and then sometimes, the motor twists those hairs around and I think I am going to die. It is grab bag really.”
“ . . . Ewww . . .”
Then he said, “Yeah, I am glad you helped me out with this whole grooming thing. You are kind of like that dog that helped his owner by chewing off the infected toe.”
“What?”
“You really came through.”
“What dog? What toe?”
“On the news. This guy had cut his toe and he didn’t go to the doctor and it got infected. Then one night the guy passed out on the couch and the dog chewed it off and saved the owners life. The guy can only count to nine now on his toes, but sometimes that is the price you have to pay.”
“So you are glad about taking care of the eyebrows, but you think I am a dog?”
“Yeah, you are helpful like that dog. Always looking out for me and stuff. I would like to point out though, that the dog waited until the guy was asleep, more men would groom if it could be done while they were unconscious.”
“Wow.”
“I know, right? So, thanks hun.”
“No problem.”
Then he said, “Is this one of those times, when you feel closer to me, I mean did this talk help you too?”
“Well, in a way, it is helping me to understand what is wrong with you. I think I am going to take a long, hot bath.”
“It’s part of your grooming right? See I am catching on.”
“If grooming includes trying to cleanse ones mind and forget about this entire conversation, then yes, yes, it is.”
I did not know how to broach the subject with him so I started off gently by saying, “What the heck is going on with your eyebrows?”
He said, “Oh, that. Well, I am not sure. I go to bed looking like my normal self and when I wake up, I have the eyebrows of an eighty year old.”
“Really?”
“Really. I’m not sure what to do about it. I try to keep them trimmed back with scissors but they keep getting longer and wirier and stranger.”
“Have you tried plucking them?”
“With what?”
“A tweezer.”
“I don’t have a tweezer on my Leatherman. In fact, I don’t think I have a tweezer in any of my tool boxes.”
And that conversation is when I realized, not only are men and women different, but men know nothing about grooming. So, I decided it was time for my husband to learn about the wonders of self-maintenance.
Again, I introduced the subject of grooming, “Honey, have you ever heard of the term metro-sexual?”
“Yeah, isn’t that just another word for chick?”
“Actually it means the strong, sensitive man that is not afraid of taking care of his appearance.”
“Sounds like a wuss to me.”
“Why don’t you want to spruce yourself up? You want me to look my best, why wouldn’t you want to look your best?”
“It is like this: Women are already attractive. You can polish a Porsche, and it looks even better, but even if you polish up a rusty old pick-up truck, it still looks like a rusty old pick-up truck.”
“But don’t you care about how you look?”
“I mean, I don’t want to look like Frankenstein, but I don’t have to look at myself all day, so I would have to say, not really.”
“Aren’t you worried what other people think?”
“Eh . . . no. I mean, take the bearded lady at the Conoco, she has a five o’clock shadow by 9 a.m. but I look at her and think, well at least I am not the bearded lady. I am the bearded lady for other people. They look at me and think; well at least I look better than that guy.”
“So you are a humanitarian?”
“Basically.”
I was not going to give up, mostly because I believed that my husband would feel better, if he looked better. And, I was afraid if we didn’t do something those eyebrows would strangle me in my sleep. So I went to the store and bought him a tweezer.
I noticed the eyebrows had been tamed a bit recently, so I asked, “How is the tweezer working out?”
“You know, it isn’t bad. It hurts like the dickens but at least you know what is coming, not like that nose-hair trimmer you got me for Christmas.”
“I didn’t even know that you used the nose-hair trimmer, what is wrong with it?”
“Oh yeah, I use it. If I don’t it looks like a toilet brush is hanging out of my nose. But anyway, sometimes I stick it up there and everything is ok, and then sometimes, the motor twists those hairs around and I think I am going to die. It is grab bag really.”
“ . . . Ewww . . .”
Then he said, “Yeah, I am glad you helped me out with this whole grooming thing. You are kind of like that dog that helped his owner by chewing off the infected toe.”
“What?”
“You really came through.”
“What dog? What toe?”
“On the news. This guy had cut his toe and he didn’t go to the doctor and it got infected. Then one night the guy passed out on the couch and the dog chewed it off and saved the owners life. The guy can only count to nine now on his toes, but sometimes that is the price you have to pay.”
“So you are glad about taking care of the eyebrows, but you think I am a dog?”
“Yeah, you are helpful like that dog. Always looking out for me and stuff. I would like to point out though, that the dog waited until the guy was asleep, more men would groom if it could be done while they were unconscious.”
“Wow.”
“I know, right? So, thanks hun.”
“No problem.”
Then he said, “Is this one of those times, when you feel closer to me, I mean did this talk help you too?”
“Well, in a way, it is helping me to understand what is wrong with you. I think I am going to take a long, hot bath.”
“It’s part of your grooming right? See I am catching on.”
“If grooming includes trying to cleanse ones mind and forget about this entire conversation, then yes, yes, it is.”
Friday, May 14, 2010
A New and Improved Gas Mask
Hallelujah! Someone has finally made an innovative product I can use. It is one of those made for TV deals, you know, not sold in stores, act now and we will throw in a set of Ginsu knives, A Grease Bullet, and a Slap Chop, all you have to do is pay shipping and handling? I am not mocking the “As seen on TV” people; they are the ones who brought us the Sham-Wow, the Snuggie, the Bumpit and the quasi-famous Aqua Globe. Well, get ready folks because this is their best invention yet: the Better Marriage Blanket.
What is it you ask? Well, according to their website it “completely and quickly absorbs the odor of flatulence.” That is right people, it de-stinks farts. Think of it like the Snuggie, only it is the odor control version. Evidently it “looks and feels like a soft warm comforter” but actually contains a layer of activated carbon fabric that absorbs the odor of your loved one, so that the only thing you smell is clean fresh air. They are calling this “a real solution to a very real problem” and I say Amen people! Finally, someone knows what I want, to breathe unsoiled, unsullied atmosphere.
If this thing works, and let’s pray that it does, it will essentially eliminate those accusatory bedtime conversations:
“Did you toot?”
“No.”
“I think you did.”
“No.”
“Are you sure you didn’t?”
“Yes.”
“Well it sounds like you tooted, and it smells like you tooted and it tastes like you tooted.”
“It was just a little one.”
My favorite part of the Better Marriage Blanket website is they say it makes a great gift. Yeah, the perfect gift for that special someone . . . that stinks. Is there someone in your life with frequent rectal rumblings, someone with recurrent disturbing aromas? Well, then it may be time for you to get them the Better Marriage Blanket. No more phantom smells, no more invisible elephants in the room, completely takes care of SBD’s (Silent but Deadlies) and leaves you free to breathe deeply.
I do have a couple of questions though:
1.) It only comes in white and beige—what, no brown?
2.) What is the return policy like?
3.) Will it absorb sound too?
4.) If I cover his face with it, will it also take care of bad breath?
5.) Can you order different scent strength blockages?
6.) How much of the blanket do you have to stuff in each orifice to stop the odor?
7.) Can the blanket be recycled once it is, ummm, full? If so, how and why?
8.) Do they offer rush delivery?
If word gets out that these blankets really work, these things will sell themselves. I am planning on buying mine soon, because if there is a run on them, and they work as advertised, the fart blanket people will be able to raise the price to anything they want. Women all over the world will be handing over their first born just to have a chance at breathing untainted oxygen. It will become like hemorrhoid cream, you won’t have to tell people what it’s for or how much it costs, just where they can get it.
I don’t have mine yet, but you can bet I will be buying one of these amazing poop particle filters very soon. And, maybe it is just because I am so forward thinking, but I can see all sorts of new products along this same line. Car seat covers, Lazy-Boy covers, couch covers, toilet seat covers, underwear, diapers, it could be a great benefit in nursing homes, for the homeless, my husband's den, the possibilities are endless! I am so excited about this thing I have been daydreaming about what the warning label might say:
This is not a toy. Intended for moderate gas only. Cannot be used as a flotation device. Do not use in conjunction with an electric blanket or other direct heat source. Do not use near open flame. Not intended for use by persons who have eaten any combination of the following: sardines, jalapeño peppers, chili, deviled eggs, haggis, hummus, bean dip, oysters, or prunes. This product was not tested on animals—unless you consider 40-year-old men with gastro-intestinal problems animals. It is a violation of federal law to remove this tag.
If you want to get your own Better Marriage Blanket, just visit their website, get yours while they last, before that burning in your eyes and nose becomes permanent. The marriage you save could be your own.
What is it you ask? Well, according to their website it “completely and quickly absorbs the odor of flatulence.” That is right people, it de-stinks farts. Think of it like the Snuggie, only it is the odor control version. Evidently it “looks and feels like a soft warm comforter” but actually contains a layer of activated carbon fabric that absorbs the odor of your loved one, so that the only thing you smell is clean fresh air. They are calling this “a real solution to a very real problem” and I say Amen people! Finally, someone knows what I want, to breathe unsoiled, unsullied atmosphere.
If this thing works, and let’s pray that it does, it will essentially eliminate those accusatory bedtime conversations:
“Did you toot?”
“No.”
“I think you did.”
“No.”
“Are you sure you didn’t?”
“Yes.”
“Well it sounds like you tooted, and it smells like you tooted and it tastes like you tooted.”
“It was just a little one.”
My favorite part of the Better Marriage Blanket website is they say it makes a great gift. Yeah, the perfect gift for that special someone . . . that stinks. Is there someone in your life with frequent rectal rumblings, someone with recurrent disturbing aromas? Well, then it may be time for you to get them the Better Marriage Blanket. No more phantom smells, no more invisible elephants in the room, completely takes care of SBD’s (Silent but Deadlies) and leaves you free to breathe deeply.
I do have a couple of questions though:
1.) It only comes in white and beige—what, no brown?
2.) What is the return policy like?
3.) Will it absorb sound too?
4.) If I cover his face with it, will it also take care of bad breath?
5.) Can you order different scent strength blockages?
6.) How much of the blanket do you have to stuff in each orifice to stop the odor?
7.) Can the blanket be recycled once it is, ummm, full? If so, how and why?
8.) Do they offer rush delivery?
If word gets out that these blankets really work, these things will sell themselves. I am planning on buying mine soon, because if there is a run on them, and they work as advertised, the fart blanket people will be able to raise the price to anything they want. Women all over the world will be handing over their first born just to have a chance at breathing untainted oxygen. It will become like hemorrhoid cream, you won’t have to tell people what it’s for or how much it costs, just where they can get it.
I don’t have mine yet, but you can bet I will be buying one of these amazing poop particle filters very soon. And, maybe it is just because I am so forward thinking, but I can see all sorts of new products along this same line. Car seat covers, Lazy-Boy covers, couch covers, toilet seat covers, underwear, diapers, it could be a great benefit in nursing homes, for the homeless, my husband's den, the possibilities are endless! I am so excited about this thing I have been daydreaming about what the warning label might say:
This is not a toy. Intended for moderate gas only. Cannot be used as a flotation device. Do not use in conjunction with an electric blanket or other direct heat source. Do not use near open flame. Not intended for use by persons who have eaten any combination of the following: sardines, jalapeño peppers, chili, deviled eggs, haggis, hummus, bean dip, oysters, or prunes. This product was not tested on animals—unless you consider 40-year-old men with gastro-intestinal problems animals. It is a violation of federal law to remove this tag.
If you want to get your own Better Marriage Blanket, just visit their website, get yours while they last, before that burning in your eyes and nose becomes permanent. The marriage you save could be your own.
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
The Light at the End of the Tunnel
My husband and I have always wanted to buy an industrial building and turn it into living space. That is just the kind of people we are—stupid people. We almost bought a hospital once and at a different time a school, but passed on both for various reasons--so the search continues. Recently my husband saw an ad for a railroad tunnel for sale. Part of the ad read: For sale: one gently used railroad tunnel, natural air conditioning, excellent storage possibilities. My husband was all over it.
“Let’s buy it!”
“Why?”
“We could turn it into a house.”
“Why?”
“It would be fun; it could be our grand adventure.”
“I am too young to die.”
It turns out the tunnel is a half mile long, twenty-one feet high and runs through the center of a mountain. It comes with fifty-four acres of commercial property and even on hot summer days stays an even fifty-one degrees temperature.
“Well I need light if I am going to live in a cave.”
“It isn’t a cave, it is a tunnel and we can get some lamps.”
“No, I mean sunlight, I am not a mole.”
“Each of the tunnel ends can be made into big glass windows.”
“Yeah but what about the center, it would be like, dark. Couldn’t we put in some windows on the side?”
“It is in the center of a mountain, how do you propose I carve windows out of the mountainside?”
“Dynamite.”
A Coeur d'Alene real estate company is marketing the property for a man named Don Parker, owner of the tunnel. Mr. Parker points out its potential for enterprises that thrive in cool, dark places, like commercial mushroom production or wine storage. Parker said he's confident that the tunnel could again be part of a viable commercial venture.
“Well if you didn’t want to live there we could turn it into a business.”
“You don’t know how to drive a train.”
“I don’t mean that. I mean something unique.”
“Like what?”
“I know, how about . . . a restaurant.”
“A restaurant?”
“Yeah, and we could get a spotlight and a train whistle, then when everyone is eating we could turn on the spot light and blow on the whistle and pretend a train is coming.”
“We would be the only restaurant around that has to have a doctor on-call for when our customers go into cardiac arrest.”
“Ok, well how about the world’s largest dark room?”
“Most people use digital cameras now.”
“We could harvest bat guano. I have heard of people doing that.”
“You have not heard of people doing that. Nobody does that! What would we do ‘that’ for? I do not want to harvest bat guano. One bat in the tunnel is a deal-breaker for me.”
“Ok fine. I know--how about the world’s biggest smoker? We just herd the cows in and light it up. Voila, 2 tons of beef jerky.”
“Oh yeah? Who is going in afterward and scooping up ½ a mile of meat?”
“I don’t know. Why do I have to think of everything?”
The newspaper article continued with: "I believe that it's the most unusual property that we've dealt with," said Thomas Tagen, the listing agent with Tomlinson North Idaho Sotheby's International Realty. No kidding.
“How about this idea--we could raise veal.”
“I thought you didn’t like sheep?”
“Veal is baby cows, not sheep.”
“Oh.”
“The calves are born and then are put in a box so they don’t move around much. They get fed all the time and kept in the dark for a few weeks, all the while getting juicy and tender, and then they go to slaughter.”
“Oh my gosh! That is terrible. Is that true?”
“Yes.”
“The poor little cows; I don’t think I could be a veal farmer.”
“Ok, how about we open a daycare.”
“A daycare?!! I just said I don’t want to torture cows, but you think torturing kids would be ok?”
“A daycare would not be torture, it would be a big open space for them to run.”
“Yeah, like run away.”
“When the parents drop them off we could just lock ‘em in. They would be glad to see their mom’s and dad’s at the end of the day. The tricky part would be getting them to come back . . . .”
“I think it would be cruel to keep them in the dark all day and send them home for dinner and then off to bed . . . in the dark.”
The article went on to quote the Real Estate agent Tagen, who said, “The tunnel itself has deep psychological meaning, that's why you see so many films with tunnels." Tagen then said. "There's an element of mystery and intrigue." That’s us, mysterious and intriguing; all our friends say so, only they call it weird and scary.
“Ok, how about this for a business idea--a beauty parlor? You wouldn’t even have to be good at it. It isn’t like they could see themselves in the mirror.”
“I am still sad about the veal.”
“Alright, no more talk about the veal. Think happy thoughts. How about we make the tunnel into a bar?”
“A bar?!”
“Why do you keep repeating everything I say?”
“I thought if you heard it repeated back to you, it might give you some idea of what it sounds like to a normal person.”
“Anyway, about the bar . . . We serve drinks in the center of the tunnel. That way, by the time everyone walks back to their car they are sober. It would cut down on drunk driving. We would be doing a community service.”
“This conversation is making me want to drink.”
“Well, how about this idea—a church!”
“I am just gonna come right out and say it: you have lost your mind.”
“Hear me out. We could re-use the spotlight and train whistle idea—that would be sure to get people down on their knees. Plus, if we close off each end of the tunnel the congregants are stuck there for the whole sermon!”
“Well, I certainly know who I will be praying for.”
“Ok this is the last idea I have, how about the world’s largest strip mall? We hand out flash-lights at the door with low-batteries and put a Radio Shack in the center—with batteries always on sale! I am telling you, I smell money!”
“I smell smoke that is for certain. Listen, if you really want this tunnel thing, we can get it. I’m not really “on board” with any of your business ideas, but maybe it could be a summer home that only you visit, or maybe the world’s largest man cave. If we do buy it though, can we get one of those vintage handcar thingies like they have in cartoons? I always wanted to try one.”
Hurry and act now, this train tunnel won’t last long. This is a limited time offer and it can be yours for the low, low price of $650,000!--unless of course, we get it first.
“Let’s buy it!”
“Why?”
“We could turn it into a house.”
“Why?”
“It would be fun; it could be our grand adventure.”
“I am too young to die.”
It turns out the tunnel is a half mile long, twenty-one feet high and runs through the center of a mountain. It comes with fifty-four acres of commercial property and even on hot summer days stays an even fifty-one degrees temperature.
“Well I need light if I am going to live in a cave.”
“It isn’t a cave, it is a tunnel and we can get some lamps.”
“No, I mean sunlight, I am not a mole.”
“Each of the tunnel ends can be made into big glass windows.”
“Yeah but what about the center, it would be like, dark. Couldn’t we put in some windows on the side?”
“It is in the center of a mountain, how do you propose I carve windows out of the mountainside?”
“Dynamite.”
A Coeur d'Alene real estate company is marketing the property for a man named Don Parker, owner of the tunnel. Mr. Parker points out its potential for enterprises that thrive in cool, dark places, like commercial mushroom production or wine storage. Parker said he's confident that the tunnel could again be part of a viable commercial venture.
“Well if you didn’t want to live there we could turn it into a business.”
“You don’t know how to drive a train.”
“I don’t mean that. I mean something unique.”
“Like what?”
“I know, how about . . . a restaurant.”
“A restaurant?”
“Yeah, and we could get a spotlight and a train whistle, then when everyone is eating we could turn on the spot light and blow on the whistle and pretend a train is coming.”
“We would be the only restaurant around that has to have a doctor on-call for when our customers go into cardiac arrest.”
“Ok, well how about the world’s largest dark room?”
“Most people use digital cameras now.”
“We could harvest bat guano. I have heard of people doing that.”
“You have not heard of people doing that. Nobody does that! What would we do ‘that’ for? I do not want to harvest bat guano. One bat in the tunnel is a deal-breaker for me.”
“Ok fine. I know--how about the world’s biggest smoker? We just herd the cows in and light it up. Voila, 2 tons of beef jerky.”
“Oh yeah? Who is going in afterward and scooping up ½ a mile of meat?”
“I don’t know. Why do I have to think of everything?”
The newspaper article continued with: "I believe that it's the most unusual property that we've dealt with," said Thomas Tagen, the listing agent with Tomlinson North Idaho Sotheby's International Realty. No kidding.
“How about this idea--we could raise veal.”
“I thought you didn’t like sheep?”
“Veal is baby cows, not sheep.”
“Oh.”
“The calves are born and then are put in a box so they don’t move around much. They get fed all the time and kept in the dark for a few weeks, all the while getting juicy and tender, and then they go to slaughter.”
“Oh my gosh! That is terrible. Is that true?”
“Yes.”
“The poor little cows; I don’t think I could be a veal farmer.”
“Ok, how about we open a daycare.”
“A daycare?!! I just said I don’t want to torture cows, but you think torturing kids would be ok?”
“A daycare would not be torture, it would be a big open space for them to run.”
“Yeah, like run away.”
“When the parents drop them off we could just lock ‘em in. They would be glad to see their mom’s and dad’s at the end of the day. The tricky part would be getting them to come back . . . .”
“I think it would be cruel to keep them in the dark all day and send them home for dinner and then off to bed . . . in the dark.”
The article went on to quote the Real Estate agent Tagen, who said, “The tunnel itself has deep psychological meaning, that's why you see so many films with tunnels." Tagen then said. "There's an element of mystery and intrigue." That’s us, mysterious and intriguing; all our friends say so, only they call it weird and scary.
“Ok, how about this for a business idea--a beauty parlor? You wouldn’t even have to be good at it. It isn’t like they could see themselves in the mirror.”
“I am still sad about the veal.”
“Alright, no more talk about the veal. Think happy thoughts. How about we make the tunnel into a bar?”
“A bar?!”
“Why do you keep repeating everything I say?”
“I thought if you heard it repeated back to you, it might give you some idea of what it sounds like to a normal person.”
“Anyway, about the bar . . . We serve drinks in the center of the tunnel. That way, by the time everyone walks back to their car they are sober. It would cut down on drunk driving. We would be doing a community service.”
“This conversation is making me want to drink.”
“Well, how about this idea—a church!”
“I am just gonna come right out and say it: you have lost your mind.”
“Hear me out. We could re-use the spotlight and train whistle idea—that would be sure to get people down on their knees. Plus, if we close off each end of the tunnel the congregants are stuck there for the whole sermon!”
“Well, I certainly know who I will be praying for.”
“Ok this is the last idea I have, how about the world’s largest strip mall? We hand out flash-lights at the door with low-batteries and put a Radio Shack in the center—with batteries always on sale! I am telling you, I smell money!”
“I smell smoke that is for certain. Listen, if you really want this tunnel thing, we can get it. I’m not really “on board” with any of your business ideas, but maybe it could be a summer home that only you visit, or maybe the world’s largest man cave. If we do buy it though, can we get one of those vintage handcar thingies like they have in cartoons? I always wanted to try one.”
Hurry and act now, this train tunnel won’t last long. This is a limited time offer and it can be yours for the low, low price of $650,000!--unless of course, we get it first.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Til Death Do Us Part
My sister was talking to me on the phone, telling me the reasons why she couldn’t get any sleep the night before. Evidently, her husband had been keeping her awake by being noisy, getting in and out of bed, and generally being a nuisance. Then, when he was finally ready to settle down and go to sleep, he rolled over and said, “Honey, are you awake? I have gas.” I supported her in the way that only a sister can. I said, “Do you ever look over at your husband and think, if only I had held the pillow down over his face just a few seconds longer, we would not be having this conversation?”
Marriage is an interesting institution. I have had many people ask me what makes a good marriage, and by many, I mean no one. Of course, not being an expert has never stopped me from giving advice before and it won’t stop me now. Who needs expertise when you have drive, ambition and a general lack of good sense? So let us take a moment to explore this establishment we call marriage.
I really do wish I knew what the secret to a good marriage is. Is it, communication, intimacy, romance, quality time, freedom to be oneself? Who knows? Each book, movie, and video says something different. One book I read said the secret to a good marital relationship is knowing how to fight together. The book purports that if you can’t fight fairly with your spouse then your marriage won't last. I was talking to a recently divorced friend about that theory and she said her ex didn’t care enough to fight in their marriage. It would be safe to say my husband and I don’t have that problem.
Him: “Where did you put my sweatshirt?”
Me: “What sweatshirt?”
Him: “The black one.”
Me: “I didn’t take it.”
Him: “Then where is it?”
Me: “I don’t know. Where did you put it?”
Him: “I didn’t put it anywhere. I had it yesterday and now it is gone.”
Me: “Well the hamper is empty and there are no clothes in the dryer or in the laundry basket, if it isn’t in the closet then I have no idea where it is.”
Him: “Why are you hiding it from me?!”
Me: “What?”
Him: “Just tell me where it is!”
Me: “I don’t know where it is!”
Him: “Yes, you do!”
Me: “No! I! Don’t!”
10 minutes later.
Me: “I was vacuuming and found your sweatshirt shoved in between the bed and nightstand. It must have fallen off the bed.”
Him: “I knew you had it.”
Of course we all know that cheating is usually a marriage killer, there has been a lot of talk in the news recently about how infidelity is affecting the marriages of movie stars. This person is having an affair, this person is having multiple affairs, this one has cheated on his wife so many times he has a hard time remembering what she looks like, etc. It makes one wonder if anyone’s marriage is safe from unfaithfulness.
Me: “Honey, have you ever had an affair?”
Him: “What?”
Me: “You know, have you ever cheated on me? You can tell me. I just need to know, for my own peace of mind.”
Him: “Listen, I can’t make one woman happy. What in the heck would I want with two?!”
I went to a ladies-only bible study where the instructor encouraged us to stop bossing our husbands around. One thing she insisted on is that we stop telling our husbands to ask for directions when they are driving somewhere (even if he is lost) because doing so would make him feel “adored.” I decided to ask my husband his feelings on the subject.
Me: “If I didn’t tell you to ask for directions would you feel adored?”
Him: “No.”
Me: “How about if I stopped telling you how to drive?”
Him: “That isn’t the word I would use. I might feel more relaxed; but adored, no.”
Me: “What if I stopped suddenly gasping every time we passed someone on the freeway? Adored?”
Him: “Um, still no. More relaxed still, but I would wonder what is wrong with you.”
Me: “So if I can’t tell you how to drive why do you get to tell me how to drive?”
Him: “I tell you how to drive so that you won’t hit things.”
Me: “You think I am a bad driver?”
Him: “No, I didn’t say that. But . . . .”
Me: “What???”
Him: “You did hit a parked car pulling out of the driveway.”
Me: “It could have happened to anyone.”
Him: “You ran into the drive thru box at Subway.”
Me: “It was in an awkward location.”
Him: “You go the same speed on the highway as you do in town. If you can call 35 mph 'speed.'”
Me: “No one needs to go 70 mph.”
Him: “You hit a pedestrian!”
Me: “I hit one pedestrian and no one ever lets me forget it!”
Him: “Most drivers don’t run over people.”
Me: “He wasn’t even in a crosswalk.”
Him: “How many bodies do you need to leave in your wake before enough is enough?!”
Me: “I see your point. So I shouldn’t give you driving instructions?”
Him: “Affirmative.”
I was reading the news and came across a headline that read “Woman Stabs Husband Over Honey-Do List” and all I could think was, man, haven’t we all been there before? Every time I go to a wedding I think of when my husband and I took our vows. “Richer, poorer, sickness, health, blah, blah, blah, ‘til death do you part.” That end part, that is my favorite. "Til death," which loosely translated means someone ain’t gettin' out of this thing alive. When Ruth Graham, wife of famed evangelist Billy Graham, asked if she ever considered divorce she said, “Divorce? No. Murder? Yes.” I like the way she thinks.
The other night I rolled over in the bed and my husband flinched.
Me: “What are you flinching for?”
Him: “I thought you were going to try and suffocate me with a pillow.”
Me: “It was at least a foot from your face.”
Him: “Yes but I had my eyes closed and when I opened them the pillow was coming toward me. My instinct is to move away from someone that I think may be trying to kill me.”
Me: “I would not kill you by suffocation. You are bigger and stronger than me, you could just push me away. So what would be the point in trying?”
Him: “True, I always figured you for a poisoner anyway.”
Me: “What?”
Him: “You would try to poison me. With arsenic or anti-freeze or rat poison. Something like that. You would just offer me something sweet laced with poison, because you know I can’t resist the sugar. Then next thing you know, I’m dead.”
Me: “You are crazy. I couldn’t even get a hold of poison. It isn’t like they sell it on every street corner.”
Him: “They do sell rat poison everywhere.”
Me: “Oh yeah, where?”
Him: “Like I am going to tell you.”
Me: “Oh. My. Gosh. You are certifiable.”
Him: “Well, if you must know, you can get it at the hardware store.”
Me: “Where they have video cameras? They have video cameras in more places than they have rat poison. So that would be a ‘no’ on poison.”
Him: “Lucky me.”
Me: “Well, since you are being morbid, how would you ‘off’ me?”
Him: “I would tell you something so scary you would keel over from a heart attack. That way I am sort of innocent. I mean, it isn’t my fault you’re a scaredy-cat.”
Me: “Whaaaaat?!”
Him: “Yeah, more bang-for-my buck, so to speak.”
Me: “You really are nuts.”
Him: “Sleep tight.”
Me: “Like I could go to sleep after this conversation.”
I have heard the saying “If you love something set it free, and if it comes back to you then it is truly yours.” Or some such nonsense. My motto is: If you love something, keep it close to you, smother it if you have to, it is your sworn duty to make it miserable for life. After all, you did promise ‘til death.’
Marriage is an interesting institution. I have had many people ask me what makes a good marriage, and by many, I mean no one. Of course, not being an expert has never stopped me from giving advice before and it won’t stop me now. Who needs expertise when you have drive, ambition and a general lack of good sense? So let us take a moment to explore this establishment we call marriage.
I really do wish I knew what the secret to a good marriage is. Is it, communication, intimacy, romance, quality time, freedom to be oneself? Who knows? Each book, movie, and video says something different. One book I read said the secret to a good marital relationship is knowing how to fight together. The book purports that if you can’t fight fairly with your spouse then your marriage won't last. I was talking to a recently divorced friend about that theory and she said her ex didn’t care enough to fight in their marriage. It would be safe to say my husband and I don’t have that problem.
Him: “Where did you put my sweatshirt?”
Me: “What sweatshirt?”
Him: “The black one.”
Me: “I didn’t take it.”
Him: “Then where is it?”
Me: “I don’t know. Where did you put it?”
Him: “I didn’t put it anywhere. I had it yesterday and now it is gone.”
Me: “Well the hamper is empty and there are no clothes in the dryer or in the laundry basket, if it isn’t in the closet then I have no idea where it is.”
Him: “Why are you hiding it from me?!”
Me: “What?”
Him: “Just tell me where it is!”
Me: “I don’t know where it is!”
Him: “Yes, you do!”
Me: “No! I! Don’t!”
10 minutes later.
Me: “I was vacuuming and found your sweatshirt shoved in between the bed and nightstand. It must have fallen off the bed.”
Him: “I knew you had it.”
Of course we all know that cheating is usually a marriage killer, there has been a lot of talk in the news recently about how infidelity is affecting the marriages of movie stars. This person is having an affair, this person is having multiple affairs, this one has cheated on his wife so many times he has a hard time remembering what she looks like, etc. It makes one wonder if anyone’s marriage is safe from unfaithfulness.
Me: “Honey, have you ever had an affair?”
Him: “What?”
Me: “You know, have you ever cheated on me? You can tell me. I just need to know, for my own peace of mind.”
Him: “Listen, I can’t make one woman happy. What in the heck would I want with two?!”
I went to a ladies-only bible study where the instructor encouraged us to stop bossing our husbands around. One thing she insisted on is that we stop telling our husbands to ask for directions when they are driving somewhere (even if he is lost) because doing so would make him feel “adored.” I decided to ask my husband his feelings on the subject.
Me: “If I didn’t tell you to ask for directions would you feel adored?”
Him: “No.”
Me: “How about if I stopped telling you how to drive?”
Him: “That isn’t the word I would use. I might feel more relaxed; but adored, no.”
Me: “What if I stopped suddenly gasping every time we passed someone on the freeway? Adored?”
Him: “Um, still no. More relaxed still, but I would wonder what is wrong with you.”
Me: “So if I can’t tell you how to drive why do you get to tell me how to drive?”
Him: “I tell you how to drive so that you won’t hit things.”
Me: “You think I am a bad driver?”
Him: “No, I didn’t say that. But . . . .”
Me: “What???”
Him: “You did hit a parked car pulling out of the driveway.”
Me: “It could have happened to anyone.”
Him: “You ran into the drive thru box at Subway.”
Me: “It was in an awkward location.”
Him: “You go the same speed on the highway as you do in town. If you can call 35 mph 'speed.'”
Me: “No one needs to go 70 mph.”
Him: “You hit a pedestrian!”
Me: “I hit one pedestrian and no one ever lets me forget it!”
Him: “Most drivers don’t run over people.”
Me: “He wasn’t even in a crosswalk.”
Him: “How many bodies do you need to leave in your wake before enough is enough?!”
Me: “I see your point. So I shouldn’t give you driving instructions?”
Him: “Affirmative.”
I was reading the news and came across a headline that read “Woman Stabs Husband Over Honey-Do List” and all I could think was, man, haven’t we all been there before? Every time I go to a wedding I think of when my husband and I took our vows. “Richer, poorer, sickness, health, blah, blah, blah, ‘til death do you part.” That end part, that is my favorite. "Til death," which loosely translated means someone ain’t gettin' out of this thing alive. When Ruth Graham, wife of famed evangelist Billy Graham, asked if she ever considered divorce she said, “Divorce? No. Murder? Yes.” I like the way she thinks.
The other night I rolled over in the bed and my husband flinched.
Me: “What are you flinching for?”
Him: “I thought you were going to try and suffocate me with a pillow.”
Me: “It was at least a foot from your face.”
Him: “Yes but I had my eyes closed and when I opened them the pillow was coming toward me. My instinct is to move away from someone that I think may be trying to kill me.”
Me: “I would not kill you by suffocation. You are bigger and stronger than me, you could just push me away. So what would be the point in trying?”
Him: “True, I always figured you for a poisoner anyway.”
Me: “What?”
Him: “You would try to poison me. With arsenic or anti-freeze or rat poison. Something like that. You would just offer me something sweet laced with poison, because you know I can’t resist the sugar. Then next thing you know, I’m dead.”
Me: “You are crazy. I couldn’t even get a hold of poison. It isn’t like they sell it on every street corner.”
Him: “They do sell rat poison everywhere.”
Me: “Oh yeah, where?”
Him: “Like I am going to tell you.”
Me: “Oh. My. Gosh. You are certifiable.”
Him: “Well, if you must know, you can get it at the hardware store.”
Me: “Where they have video cameras? They have video cameras in more places than they have rat poison. So that would be a ‘no’ on poison.”
Him: “Lucky me.”
Me: “Well, since you are being morbid, how would you ‘off’ me?”
Him: “I would tell you something so scary you would keel over from a heart attack. That way I am sort of innocent. I mean, it isn’t my fault you’re a scaredy-cat.”
Me: “Whaaaaat?!”
Him: “Yeah, more bang-for-my buck, so to speak.”
Me: “You really are nuts.”
Him: “Sleep tight.”
Me: “Like I could go to sleep after this conversation.”
I have heard the saying “If you love something set it free, and if it comes back to you then it is truly yours.” Or some such nonsense. My motto is: If you love something, keep it close to you, smother it if you have to, it is your sworn duty to make it miserable for life. After all, you did promise ‘til death.’
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Roughin' It Ain't Easy
Lot’s of folks assume that because I am from Idaho it means that I am a hardened outdoorsy person who loves the smell of pine and the rugged uncharted countryside, and that I can do things that are woodsy, like camp. But they would be mistaken. In my opinion there is only one civilized form of camping and it is called ‘staying in a hotel.’ I like to take my cues from the president. When he “camps” he stays at Camp David, otherwise known as the Taj Mahal of the outdoors. It comes with a maid, a chef, and 20 highly trained secret service agents ready to blow wild animals to bits. That is my kind of nature experience.
Why do people get excited about camping? What is so fun about hiking out into the middle of nowhere and pretending you are homeless? I have had friends tell me that they go camping to “get away from it all.” What I would like to know is: Get away from what? City services like running water, police and fire departments? Or is it the hospital, paved roads and toilets that flush? Maybe they are trying to get away from me. If so, then camping is an excellent way to hide, because I would never go looking for them.
Now, I used to camp with my parents when I was a kid. Let’s just say, I have mostly forgiven them. I still have nightmares about the 15 person green canvas tent and blue shorty-bus my parents made us take on camping excursions. Fifteen kids, 2 dogs and no indoor plumbing; conquering the wild outdoors in a baby-blue mini-bus that was only prone to breakdown on long stretches of lonesome highway during record high temperatures—ahhh, memories.
When I went camping with my parents it was do or die. It did not matter what was going on around us (or to us) this was our “vacation” so we would press-on no matter what. A tire blows out, we keep going. Lose the car keys in a lake, we keep going. Someone complains of extreme stomach cramping that may/or may not be attributed to acute appendicitis and/or a ruptured spleen . . . we just keep on camping. Once when we were vacationing in the Payette Lake area an epidemic of stomach flu began to circulate in our troop. First one of the little kids exhibited signs of illness, then another, and another. It was like watching a Mack truck getting ready to plow into you. You knew it was coming; you were just waiting for the crash. We begged our parents to take us home, but they would not relent.
One night, after several very troublesome hours of trying to sleep next to my flatulent brother; I hobbled to the outhouse and just got the door pushed open as I started to exhibit the tell-tale signs of gastro-intestinal distress. In the dark, with no flashlight and barely able to stand upright, my bowels unleashed a fury the likes I had never seen before or since. My aim had been exceptionally poor and the contents of my stomach now coated the entire inside of the outhouse, unfortunately, there was nothing I could do about it at two in the morning. Sick and weak, I barely made it back to my tent before collapsing. In the morning, I was headed to the bathroom for another bout of heaving when my brother warned, “Be careful someone spilled bean soup all over in the outhouse.”
The ride home from that trip only got worse. An hour on the road my sister said she didn’t feel well and that she needed to get out of the car. My mother turned to my father and said, “Dear you need to pull over.”
My dad said, “Ok, let me find a good spot.”
As my sister continued to writhe and swoon in her seat, my mother said a little more firmly, “Dear, you need to pull over, soon.”
Then my dad said, “I know, I am looking for a good spot.”
My mother glanced fearfully at my sister and then to my father and said, “Dear . . .”
That is the exact moment when my sister’s vomit smacked my mother in the back of the head.
After my mother’s cranium recoiled from the force of spewage slapping her in the skull, she turned to my father, (who was still looking for a good spot to pull over) and tried to kill him with her eyes. When the car finally did come to a stop, everyone filed out at record pace, well, except for the dogs. Over the commotion I could hear someone say: “Oooooooo gross, the dogs are eating it!”
I assumed that when I got married I had finally escaped the camping extravaganza, but sadly, no. I married into a family of outdoor fanatics. My husband however, is the worst. Survivor-man has nothing on this guy. He doesn’t believe in bringing along luxuries like pillows and food. His list of camping necessities to pack has only 7 items on it, and includes the following:
1 box of granola bars (breakfast)
1 pkg of hotdogs (lunch and dinner)
Toilet Paper (to start the fire and, well, uh . . . you know)
Leatherman multi-tool (used to whittle sticks for cooking hotdogs)
Matches (to build the fire to roast hotdogs)
Sleeping Bag (our only protection from the elements)
Extra Underwear (well, if you are going to face hungry cougars and bears, you may need lots of these)
Yes, he likes to take our whole family camping, presumably to bond and get back to the basics of life. I have to say, it does accomplish both of those. I spend the whole time praying that if God preserves my life I will never again go to a place for a vacation where I surround myself with small children and a husband so sick of hot dogs they are ready to eat me Donner-party style.
Now, because of my lack of outdoor experience you may assume that I know nothing about the wild, or that I have no sense of adventure. This is not the case. Have you ever been to a Double-Tree during wedding season? How about trying to park at the grade-school Christmas program when you are 10 minutes late and are in charge of costumes and 2 Shepherd’s? How about running errands with 2 toddlers who have missed their nap and didn’t eat their lunch? Trust me; I know about wildness and adventure, it is just a different kind.
Now I performed a quasi-scientific survey among friends and family and found that the number one reason that people like to camp is the quiet. The absence of noise is really what drives the desire for roughing it. So if this is the case with you, I have come up with a list of quiet places to hide out, er I mean hang out, and get a camping fix without having to pack up your tent.
Library (Upside: Temperature controlled environment; Downside: They will make you pay for any books used to start your campfire)
Mortuary/Funeral Home (Upside: You will be completely alone; Downside: Does not have that fresh pine smell)
Golf Course (Upside: Wide open spaces with varied terrain; Downside: Know the sprinkler schedule or plan on having soggy s’mores)
Cemetery (Upside: Lots of interesting “rock” formations; Downside: Watch out for large crevices)
As summer made its official end last week, I can toast the fact that I made it through another camping season. Here’s to a 9 month reprieve before next summer rolls around. Until then, I will be enjoying the cold weather and blustery skies. Secure in the knowledge that the only time I will be getting back to nature this fall and winter is on a few random Saturdays when I choose to go without makeup.
Why do people get excited about camping? What is so fun about hiking out into the middle of nowhere and pretending you are homeless? I have had friends tell me that they go camping to “get away from it all.” What I would like to know is: Get away from what? City services like running water, police and fire departments? Or is it the hospital, paved roads and toilets that flush? Maybe they are trying to get away from me. If so, then camping is an excellent way to hide, because I would never go looking for them.
Now, I used to camp with my parents when I was a kid. Let’s just say, I have mostly forgiven them. I still have nightmares about the 15 person green canvas tent and blue shorty-bus my parents made us take on camping excursions. Fifteen kids, 2 dogs and no indoor plumbing; conquering the wild outdoors in a baby-blue mini-bus that was only prone to breakdown on long stretches of lonesome highway during record high temperatures—ahhh, memories.
When I went camping with my parents it was do or die. It did not matter what was going on around us (or to us) this was our “vacation” so we would press-on no matter what. A tire blows out, we keep going. Lose the car keys in a lake, we keep going. Someone complains of extreme stomach cramping that may/or may not be attributed to acute appendicitis and/or a ruptured spleen . . . we just keep on camping. Once when we were vacationing in the Payette Lake area an epidemic of stomach flu began to circulate in our troop. First one of the little kids exhibited signs of illness, then another, and another. It was like watching a Mack truck getting ready to plow into you. You knew it was coming; you were just waiting for the crash. We begged our parents to take us home, but they would not relent.
One night, after several very troublesome hours of trying to sleep next to my flatulent brother; I hobbled to the outhouse and just got the door pushed open as I started to exhibit the tell-tale signs of gastro-intestinal distress. In the dark, with no flashlight and barely able to stand upright, my bowels unleashed a fury the likes I had never seen before or since. My aim had been exceptionally poor and the contents of my stomach now coated the entire inside of the outhouse, unfortunately, there was nothing I could do about it at two in the morning. Sick and weak, I barely made it back to my tent before collapsing. In the morning, I was headed to the bathroom for another bout of heaving when my brother warned, “Be careful someone spilled bean soup all over in the outhouse.”
The ride home from that trip only got worse. An hour on the road my sister said she didn’t feel well and that she needed to get out of the car. My mother turned to my father and said, “Dear you need to pull over.”
My dad said, “Ok, let me find a good spot.”
As my sister continued to writhe and swoon in her seat, my mother said a little more firmly, “Dear, you need to pull over, soon.”
Then my dad said, “I know, I am looking for a good spot.”
My mother glanced fearfully at my sister and then to my father and said, “Dear . . .”
That is the exact moment when my sister’s vomit smacked my mother in the back of the head.
After my mother’s cranium recoiled from the force of spewage slapping her in the skull, she turned to my father, (who was still looking for a good spot to pull over) and tried to kill him with her eyes. When the car finally did come to a stop, everyone filed out at record pace, well, except for the dogs. Over the commotion I could hear someone say: “Oooooooo gross, the dogs are eating it!”
I assumed that when I got married I had finally escaped the camping extravaganza, but sadly, no. I married into a family of outdoor fanatics. My husband however, is the worst. Survivor-man has nothing on this guy. He doesn’t believe in bringing along luxuries like pillows and food. His list of camping necessities to pack has only 7 items on it, and includes the following:
1 box of granola bars (breakfast)
1 pkg of hotdogs (lunch and dinner)
Toilet Paper (to start the fire and, well, uh . . . you know)
Leatherman multi-tool (used to whittle sticks for cooking hotdogs)
Matches (to build the fire to roast hotdogs)
Sleeping Bag (our only protection from the elements)
Extra Underwear (well, if you are going to face hungry cougars and bears, you may need lots of these)
Yes, he likes to take our whole family camping, presumably to bond and get back to the basics of life. I have to say, it does accomplish both of those. I spend the whole time praying that if God preserves my life I will never again go to a place for a vacation where I surround myself with small children and a husband so sick of hot dogs they are ready to eat me Donner-party style.
Now, because of my lack of outdoor experience you may assume that I know nothing about the wild, or that I have no sense of adventure. This is not the case. Have you ever been to a Double-Tree during wedding season? How about trying to park at the grade-school Christmas program when you are 10 minutes late and are in charge of costumes and 2 Shepherd’s? How about running errands with 2 toddlers who have missed their nap and didn’t eat their lunch? Trust me; I know about wildness and adventure, it is just a different kind.
Now I performed a quasi-scientific survey among friends and family and found that the number one reason that people like to camp is the quiet. The absence of noise is really what drives the desire for roughing it. So if this is the case with you, I have come up with a list of quiet places to hide out, er I mean hang out, and get a camping fix without having to pack up your tent.
Library (Upside: Temperature controlled environment; Downside: They will make you pay for any books used to start your campfire)
Mortuary/Funeral Home (Upside: You will be completely alone; Downside: Does not have that fresh pine smell)
Golf Course (Upside: Wide open spaces with varied terrain; Downside: Know the sprinkler schedule or plan on having soggy s’mores)
Cemetery (Upside: Lots of interesting “rock” formations; Downside: Watch out for large crevices)
As summer made its official end last week, I can toast the fact that I made it through another camping season. Here’s to a 9 month reprieve before next summer rolls around. Until then, I will be enjoying the cold weather and blustery skies. Secure in the knowledge that the only time I will be getting back to nature this fall and winter is on a few random Saturdays when I choose to go without makeup.
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