I Can Hardly Bear It.

We’re camping this long weekend and you know how I feel about that. But Husband bought me a new sleeping bag, so things are looking up.

The weather is gorgeous and we did some gardening this morning. After some chores and fighting, we’re hanging out down here and thinking about the tent, even tho the eldest kid is mostly a real fucking shit today and I’m reconsidering everything. Anyhoo. After gardening and listening to the kids fuck about, I remembered to look up images of animal scat, AKA shit, as you do, and it turns out we have one big motherfucker shitting in our yard some of the time, maybe a stag but also maybe a fucking black bear. I’m sorry, what? What? What the fuck? I’m not going to put in the turd pictures but you get the idea.

Anyhoo, black bears are cool, or so I hear. Actually, I have heard nothing for the last 6 six years that we’ve lived here, so, cool, I guess… Anyhoo, bells and whistles (and bear spray) all ’round, I guess.

To the rescue

Reasons I Hate Camping This Time Around

Or why I am a terrible human bean, because Husband does a good job of packing most things and maybe it’s not really so heinous.

My sleeping bag: swaddled in nylon, and not the cute vintage nightgown type, but the padded tarpaulin that doesn’t breathe and makes my vagina swampy because of the not breathing, not natural fabric, type nylon.

The weather: Hot and soupy in the bus, then freezing in the night so I wake and double-check the boys are covered since they weren’t before when it was hot af, and not be able to get back to sleep.

My sleeping bag: it makes lots of noise because of the tarpaulin thing, which keeps me awake and wakes me up every time I fucking move or breathe.

People: they start their diesel engined RVs rudely early, which wakes me up and because I can see outside, it stops my brain from going back to sleep, so… fuck those guys.

Packing: I always forget that I want to clean my ears after swimming or just baking in my sleeping bag and I don’t bring any cotton tips. 

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not not an outdoor girl, but I respect outdoors when I can come indoors and wash it all away. And also, I guess I need a new sleeping bag.

Camping

As a general rule, camping is not my favourite. There are bugs, it’s dirty in the tent, if you’re having sex then it’s sort of impossible, if there’s kids then they fuck around in the tent; all that good stuff. Backyard camping, however, means the kids sleep in a tent and I slip into the house, or I wake up stupidly early after sliding around in the sleeping bag making noises like a shopping bag every five seconds so I continuously wake myself up, then slip into the house in the morning. This episode of That Camping Life involves the latter scenario. I woke up at 5.20. What. The. Fuck.

It was lovely to hear the myriad birds outside the nylon, but it was also lovely to shut the heavy wooden door of my house against their melodic warbles and reheat my forgotten tea from yesterday – black as my camper’s heart because I left the bag in – in the modern, non-camping miracle AKA the microwave, and contemplate where to find another modern miracle, the ibuprofen. I feel pretty good, all things considered, but the camp beds sort of suck, probably because they were made to support 200lbs of camo-encased huntin’, fishin’ and fuckin’ man, after a long day in the undergrowth, gun in hand, before he slakes his hunger for meat and thirst for Pabst Blue Ribbon, or etc, whereas I am a more modest 150lbs, and drank white wine and pinot noir, and spilled peppered pork ribs on my dress. In hindsight, it sounds like I should eat and drink more so I pass out, or just sleep on the ground. Or sleep in my own bed, where Husband has slunk off to, now. 

I’m surprised the boys were still asleep. There were up pretty late, but the sun is up pretty early, these days, and the nylon doesn’t do much to keep out those golden rays.

I also heard an animal sniffing around this morning, before I pulled the tag on the zipper of my sleeping bag, tooth by torturously loud tooth, trying to be quiet even though I knew I would have to clamber over Husband’s face to get out of the tent (not as romantic as it sounds) because he positioned the camp beds against the zip and himself the gatekeeper of it. But there was no sign of our friends’ dog when Husband magnanimously rolled out of the way after I mutterred “fuck it” and tore down the last few inches of that damn zip. Perhaps it was a raccoon, and now it is ripping the nylon to shreds and terrorizing my children while I sip my cooling tea and recross my legs on my plush armchair. Or an opossum, coyote, or even a fucking cougar. 

When I opened my eyes to the tent ceiling, I pictured a bloody jacket hanging there and a T-Rex head nosing about. My getaway would have been short-lived because the zip would keep getting caught on the inside of the sleeping bag, and the camp beds are the wrong way. I would have been crunched up and eaten, and Husband would have slept through it. Or it would eat the dog. Either way, I’m in the house, now, and that’s all that matters.