Managing to keep my husband and offspring relatively intact in a house full of power tools, sports equipment, and heating sources is a full time job at best. So filing them in to a camper and depositing us all in the wilderness can be considered an attempt at reconnecting with Mother Nature, or a side effect of that head injury I incurred helping Tommy put the Christmas lights up last year.
I have extensive faith in my husband's mechanical abilities, so long as he limits himself to Leggo and two beers. Convincing him to buy a camper that folds down into a compact wind turbine to drag behind the van while crying at the cruel man who drew the map can only be blamed on a long night of watching "Bonanza" reruns while I was battling the flu and all jacked up on cough syrup.
Our adventure begins with my husband removing the suitcases from the van to make room for his beer cooler, emptying his bladder behind a tree to "show the boys what to expect in the wild", apologizing to the neighbor for the peep show, and doing a half-hearted head count as he climbs behind the wheel while begging the neighbor not to call the police. Again.
Pulling away with a frighteningly loud verse of "Wagons West", we marvel at how the camper is so lightweight we can barely tell we're pulling it. Quickly reversing to re-attach the camper that still sits in the driveway, we are welcomed by the relieved faces of the two kids standing beside it that got missed in the headcount.
Finally on the road, I wait on pins and needles to hear what wonderful campground my husband reserved for us. Noticing his repentant expression, I realize with horror that we are once again at the mercy of whichever barely passable logging road we can find on a map.
After driving for 11 hours while listening to the boys engaging in combat in the back seat, Tommy spots what appears to be a walking trail for crippled squirrels and hangs a sharp left on to the "road". Travelling at a velocity that strips the foliage from the forest and forces a family of owls into stress leave, he hits a rut that dislodges the camper and deposits it at the border of a cliff and announces "We're here. Get out".
Abandoning their commitment to batter each other, the boys exit the van and check out their new home for the next week. Avoiding eye contact with their father when he begins hinting at help "hoisting" the camper, I remain composed when I see several vapor trails disappearing into the woods with mumbled excuses about making mosquito netting or finding a tree root that will cure their sudden onset of gout.
Shrugging the abandonment off, my husband digs around the many cases of beer in the back of the van and produces a "tool kit". Gone are the cumbersome wrenches and screwdrivers that would take up space otherwise reserved for the cooler, only to be replaced by a propane torch and duct tape. Unnerved by his bravado about "only really need the duct tape to put 'er up", I resign myself to the fact that the first aid kit will be christened long before campfire time.
Using the torch nozzle to crank up the tent parts of the camper (due to the fact that the actual cranks were fashioned into a skateboard ramp by the boys), Tommy is unconcerned by the mysterious absense of metal poles to sustain such a structure, and fashions "supports" out of tree branches and duct tape. Declaring "Chez Hawley" open for business, he wolf-whistles to lure the boys to their humble abode.
Watching them wander out of the forest, I can't tell if I'm more distracted by the middle son's facial twitching as he announces with a shaky voice that he can't find a Wi-Fi hookup anywhere in the woods, or the fact that my youngest is stark naked with an announcement that he's going by the name of "Wild Willy" from now on and dares any of us urbanites to challenge him.
Unpacking the hotdogs, I urge my husband to let me be the one to start the fire. Spooked by a scowl that is usually reserved for dress shopping with me or watching romantic comedies, I concede the task to a man who could be the poster child for the makers of sterile gauze, and send my little darlings back into the forest to find firewood.
Converting the camper into an infirmary in preparation for what's to come, I'm not encouraged by hearing "Wild Willy" mutter that he'd rather forage for berries or intimidate some woodland fairies into working for him.
Returning with the rough equivalent of a box of toothpicks, the boys declare themselves exhausted and head to the camper to wait for the weinie roast. Climbing onto the bunks, they lay down and mourn the loss of several days of X-Box Live. Piling up enough branches to build a wicker house, my husband proudly brandishes the propane torch and a BBQ lighter. Drowning out my warnings with a war cry, Tommy lights a bonfire that could signal the space shuttle, as the rotted branches and duct tape holding the camper up give way sending the boys sprawling over the mud and grass at warp speed.
Almost knocked down by "Wild Willy"s panicked break for the trees, I grab the extinguisher I so expertly hid in the cooler, and cover the campsite and the boys in a film of white dust. Realizing I also ruined the weiners, I reveal to the boys that all the other food was in the suitcases that were left at home, and we have to now hunt for squirrels.
Startled by the Park Ranger that suddenly emerged from the bushes, I'm horrified to learn that our fire initiated the Forest Emergency Response, and we'd better have a good reason for creating an inferno during forest fire season, littering the forest with the empty Doritos bags that the kids snuck with them, and displacing a family of owls.
Dismayed by the unfortunate timing of "Wild Willy" barrelling out of the trees wearing nothing but mud and screaming about the intentions of a mutant squirrel, I bearly get my Calm Down Yell working when Mr. Park Ranger launches himself out of the way, only to land on what's left of the camper.
Finally succumbing to the laws of physics, the camper teeters on the edge for one last bitter moment before crashing over the edge of the cliff, the noise drawing the pack of fire fighters and rangers searching for us to the site now referred to as "Apocalypse Ridge".
Trying to sneak into the brush without being associated with this bunch, I'm forced to witness my teenagers stealthily hijacking the Blackberry left on the dash of the rangers' truck, a firefighter trying in vain to pull a sobbing Tommy off the charred beer cooler, and "Wild Willy" challenging the interlopers to a duel with a sharpened pine cone.
I sure hope the makers of "Bonanza" don't watch CNN.....
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
Saturday, April 11, 2009
Driving for Dummies
It's hard to imagine that sweet little face you adore from the moment of birth will be sneering at you through the windshield of a car while bearing down on your lawn ornaments someday....but alas, that is our destiny.
Being such a frugal (OK....broke) family, my husband and I thought it best if we passed on our own driving experience and knowledge to our boys instead of paying a complete stranger to guide them through this milestone. Kind of a passing of the torch as we fantasized about being driven from place to place by shiny, well mannered, considerate, Gosh-Gee-Golly kinds of young men. That being said, my husband still believes in the Easter Bunny, too.
Strapping himself into the seatbelt, my oldest barely registers my directions to familiarize himself with all the dials and gadgets as he throws the car into gear, mashes the gas pedal to the floor, and launches me into the back seat. Fighting the G-force as I claw my way back into the front seat and struggle to get the seatbelt to fit over all the cheesecake I've been sampling, I frantically wave my arms to catch his attention and try to drown out his "Yeeeeeeeee Haaaawwww"s with my Hail Marys.
Colliding with him on a hairpin turn that was preceded by him shouting "Put your seatbelt on tighter...I wanna try something!", I'm not at all comforted by his declaration that it worked better when he did it on Nintendo.
Having no idea that a red light could be interpreted as a friendly suggestion, I hang on for dear life as my body is subjected to the amount of force usually reserved for a particle accelerator, and pray for the police, or army, or Ninja Turtles to command him to pull over.
Being fully equipped with that magic radar that alerts them to the presence of pretty girls, my son locks up the brakes and comes to a screeching halt at the next crosswalk. Preening his eyebrows as he gives her the "Whatyoudoin" nod, he's unaware of my pawing at the door locks while trying to breathe normally now that my uterus is permanently lodged in my chest cavity.
Accelerating at a rate that would shame a rocket scientist, and ignoring the groceries bouncing off the windshield from the elderly lady trying in vain to reach the safety of the curb, my son decides that now would be a great time to call all his buddies and let them know he's a man.
Ducking the various garbage cans, pylons, and bushes that thump off the hood and threaten to come through the glass as he uses both hands to dial, I'm astounded to hear him saying, "No, really, I'm legal this time...she's actually with me". Snatching the phone and begging his buddy to call 911, I'm disturbed to hear his friend yell "Cool...he's telling the truth! She just said stuff to me!"
Cutting across a once-manicured lawn, my firstborn lays on the horn as he whoops and whistles for his buddies to come outside and bask in his manhood. Leaving a trail of jealous teenagers and dead lawn gnomes, he slams the gas pedal down again and announces that we're heading to the mall.
Still dialing and texting his buddies, he weaves around the cars that are going the right way down this one-way street we find ourselves on, and laments to his buddies about the "idiot old people on the roads".
Turning the radio up to a volume that makes the car doors ripple and peel, he warns me to duck under the dash when we get to the mall so none of his friends can see me and slingshots around a telephone pole.
Slamming on the brakes when his girl radar goes off again, I have no choice but to duck under the dash as I'm catapulted there by the same gravitational pull that keeps the moon afloat. Complaining to his buddy on his cell phone that it was a "false alarm...waaaayyyy over 30...", he engages the overdrive again to create another picture perfect vapor trail.
Speeding into the parking lot, he's completely unconcerned with the hoardes of people barely escaping the clutches of my hood ornament, and eagerly seeks out the faces of Those Too Young To Drive Yet as we go airborne over the speed bumps.
My arm straining against the laws of physics, I manage to force my hand through the time warp ripping open in between us, and pull the keys from the ignition. Ignoring the "JEEZ MOM! YOU WANNA CAUSE AN ACCIDENT OR SOMETHING?!", I realize that the doors are too crumpled to open any more, and slither out of the car where my window used to be.
Gasping for air while I kiss the stationary pavement, I'm hardly aware of the high-fives and "You rock, man!"s coming from the crowds of Those Too Young To Drive kids who have come to worship the man who will be their BFF whenever they need a lift.
Standing on legs that feel like wet noodles, I try to ignore the whimpering and horrified stare of my insurance agent parked next to us as I hail a cab and grab my son's cell phone to call a tow truck.
Safely home, and with shaking hands, I thumb through the Yellow Pages and try to decide which driving school instructor I hate most and will therefore give my business to, wave to the neighbors as they systematically reinforce their fence, and contemplate legally changing my son's name to Ricky-Bobby.
His first car needs to be a horse....
Being such a frugal (OK....broke) family, my husband and I thought it best if we passed on our own driving experience and knowledge to our boys instead of paying a complete stranger to guide them through this milestone. Kind of a passing of the torch as we fantasized about being driven from place to place by shiny, well mannered, considerate, Gosh-Gee-Golly kinds of young men. That being said, my husband still believes in the Easter Bunny, too.
Strapping himself into the seatbelt, my oldest barely registers my directions to familiarize himself with all the dials and gadgets as he throws the car into gear, mashes the gas pedal to the floor, and launches me into the back seat. Fighting the G-force as I claw my way back into the front seat and struggle to get the seatbelt to fit over all the cheesecake I've been sampling, I frantically wave my arms to catch his attention and try to drown out his "Yeeeeeeeee Haaaawwww"s with my Hail Marys.
Colliding with him on a hairpin turn that was preceded by him shouting "Put your seatbelt on tighter...I wanna try something!", I'm not at all comforted by his declaration that it worked better when he did it on Nintendo.
Having no idea that a red light could be interpreted as a friendly suggestion, I hang on for dear life as my body is subjected to the amount of force usually reserved for a particle accelerator, and pray for the police, or army, or Ninja Turtles to command him to pull over.
Being fully equipped with that magic radar that alerts them to the presence of pretty girls, my son locks up the brakes and comes to a screeching halt at the next crosswalk. Preening his eyebrows as he gives her the "Whatyoudoin" nod, he's unaware of my pawing at the door locks while trying to breathe normally now that my uterus is permanently lodged in my chest cavity.
Accelerating at a rate that would shame a rocket scientist, and ignoring the groceries bouncing off the windshield from the elderly lady trying in vain to reach the safety of the curb, my son decides that now would be a great time to call all his buddies and let them know he's a man.
Ducking the various garbage cans, pylons, and bushes that thump off the hood and threaten to come through the glass as he uses both hands to dial, I'm astounded to hear him saying, "No, really, I'm legal this time...she's actually with me". Snatching the phone and begging his buddy to call 911, I'm disturbed to hear his friend yell "Cool...he's telling the truth! She just said stuff to me!"
Cutting across a once-manicured lawn, my firstborn lays on the horn as he whoops and whistles for his buddies to come outside and bask in his manhood. Leaving a trail of jealous teenagers and dead lawn gnomes, he slams the gas pedal down again and announces that we're heading to the mall.
Still dialing and texting his buddies, he weaves around the cars that are going the right way down this one-way street we find ourselves on, and laments to his buddies about the "idiot old people on the roads".
Turning the radio up to a volume that makes the car doors ripple and peel, he warns me to duck under the dash when we get to the mall so none of his friends can see me and slingshots around a telephone pole.
Slamming on the brakes when his girl radar goes off again, I have no choice but to duck under the dash as I'm catapulted there by the same gravitational pull that keeps the moon afloat. Complaining to his buddy on his cell phone that it was a "false alarm...waaaayyyy over 30...", he engages the overdrive again to create another picture perfect vapor trail.
Speeding into the parking lot, he's completely unconcerned with the hoardes of people barely escaping the clutches of my hood ornament, and eagerly seeks out the faces of Those Too Young To Drive Yet as we go airborne over the speed bumps.
My arm straining against the laws of physics, I manage to force my hand through the time warp ripping open in between us, and pull the keys from the ignition. Ignoring the "JEEZ MOM! YOU WANNA CAUSE AN ACCIDENT OR SOMETHING?!", I realize that the doors are too crumpled to open any more, and slither out of the car where my window used to be.
Gasping for air while I kiss the stationary pavement, I'm hardly aware of the high-fives and "You rock, man!"s coming from the crowds of Those Too Young To Drive kids who have come to worship the man who will be their BFF whenever they need a lift.
Standing on legs that feel like wet noodles, I try to ignore the whimpering and horrified stare of my insurance agent parked next to us as I hail a cab and grab my son's cell phone to call a tow truck.
Safely home, and with shaking hands, I thumb through the Yellow Pages and try to decide which driving school instructor I hate most and will therefore give my business to, wave to the neighbors as they systematically reinforce their fence, and contemplate legally changing my son's name to Ricky-Bobby.
His first car needs to be a horse....
Friday, January 23, 2009
Gym is a Four-Letter Word
Santa should have thought this through. Aligning his jolly name with cookies and chocolate has lasting ramifications...for the women responsible to actually do the fat man's job.
I'm all for loading up a plate of cookies for Saint Nick with a love note from the kids, I'm just sour that it ends with those jeans I bought on sale in September threatening to give me an appendectomy every time I sneeze or bend over. OK....maybe me lobbying that the reindeer are magic and eat chocolate and Pringles instead of hay and carrots needs to be filed in the "Good Idea at the Time" file, but I feel I'm being unfairly treated by the earth's gravitational pull.
Resigning myself to the fact that I can't squint and pretend I just spilled cottage cheese on my thighs anymore , I present my jiggly self to the goon at the front desk of "Jim's Gym".
I appreciate the kindly look on his face until I notice him repeatedly pushing a red panic button under the desk. Realizing the beads of sweat on his face have nothing to do with the stairmaster parked behind him, I turn just in time to see his colleague trying to fit into the broom closet while sucking back on a puffer.
Deploying my sweetest "Don't hurt me and I won't hurt you" smile, I bravely ask for directions to the change room. After eventually clarifying what his garbled sobs meant, I finally find myself in that room where control top panties come to die.
Digging through my bag, I extract a pair of gym pants made from some space-age material that I was assured would cover all my assets while allowing the material to "breathe". Pulling them over my cottage-cheese ridden thighs, I realize with horror that that's as far up as they're gonna go. Not wanting to shame myself or interrupt the front desk goons wailing the rosary, I pull my husband's favorite beer shirt down until it covers my knees and venture to the main gym.
Although offended by the horrified stares of the gym staff, I actually feel sorry for the smallest of them for getting shoved and locked out of the office while the others pulled the blinds and killed the lights. Introducing himself in a voice that sounds like a baby mouse whistling, I give "Matt" a firm handshake and stride to The Cardio Room.
Surveying what once must have been the cockpit of the space shuttle, I decide that the "Ellipse" machine is the least threatening, and climb aboard. Wanting to prove to all the skinny wenches in the room that Old Mother Hubbard can still kick their asses, I ignore Matt's warnings to start on Level 1 and crank the machine up to its highest volume.
Gripping the handlebars for dear life as my knee becomes airborne and connects with Matt's chin and sends him sprawling, I frantically push the "level down" button in the hopes that all my parts are still connected when it screeches to a halt. I calmly adjust my t-shirt in the giant mirror that some sadist put right in front of the machine as I wait for Matt to regain consciousness, and decide that maybe a good old-fashioned treadmill is just what I need.
Reassured that Matt can finally tell how many fingers I'm holding up, I secure the safety string to my shirt and commence strolling. Congratulating myself for my athletic prowess, I realize that this gym stuff's not so bad. I walk all the time around the house, and this is exactly like that. Except my pants only come to mid-thigh, I don't usually wheeze like this, and there's some poor guy standing beside me with his eyes rolling back in his head.
Accidentally hitting the "speed up" button as he passed out again, Matt is temporarily deposited belly-first on the treadmill with me until it catapults itself to 14 miles per hour, launching Matt backwards onto some skinny chick on a stationary bike while I find myself again hanging on for dear life.
Thinking I'm gonna be OK as my legs pinwheel like a Sylvester the Cat lawn ornament, I realize with dismay that my thigh-length space pants are squeezing their way down towards my ankles...and that the material on the space pants is the only thing on my body capable of breathing right now. Letting go of the hand grips, I press my hands against my thighs as hard as I can while duck-waddling at 14 miles per hour and trying to scream for help.
Encouraged by the moans I hear from Matt behind me, I remember with glee the safety string I so smartly attached to me before turning this beast on. Bravely letting myself roll backwards until the string elicits that sweet emergency stopping mechanism, I'm only partly aware the back of my head colliding with the front of Matt's as he bravely came from behind to save me.
Once again adjusting my shirt while waiting for Matt to rejoin the world, I admit to myself that maybe a little cottage cheese never hurt no one. Helping Matt to his feet, I thank him for his assistance, but sadly explain that I won't be coming back.
With the exertion of opening the door amplifying my wheeze to a level that almost completely drowns out Matt's tearful "THANK YOU LORD JESUS"s, I try to regain some dignity by reaching under my t-shirt and hauling my space pants back to thigh level. Finally caving under the stress, the surprisingly elastic material snaps away from my body, and delivers the mother of all towel-whips to Matt's hoo-hoo's.
Abandoning my hopes of making a graceful exit, I tippy-toe past the front desk goons that I can still see despite their attempts to camouflage themselves with the decorative fake plants, disregard the fact that I look like I'm dressed in a Heineken nightgown, and gratefully slip behind the wheel of my car.
First stop....Laura Secord....
I'm all for loading up a plate of cookies for Saint Nick with a love note from the kids, I'm just sour that it ends with those jeans I bought on sale in September threatening to give me an appendectomy every time I sneeze or bend over. OK....maybe me lobbying that the reindeer are magic and eat chocolate and Pringles instead of hay and carrots needs to be filed in the "Good Idea at the Time" file, but I feel I'm being unfairly treated by the earth's gravitational pull.
Resigning myself to the fact that I can't squint and pretend I just spilled cottage cheese on my thighs anymore , I present my jiggly self to the goon at the front desk of "Jim's Gym".
I appreciate the kindly look on his face until I notice him repeatedly pushing a red panic button under the desk. Realizing the beads of sweat on his face have nothing to do with the stairmaster parked behind him, I turn just in time to see his colleague trying to fit into the broom closet while sucking back on a puffer.
Deploying my sweetest "Don't hurt me and I won't hurt you" smile, I bravely ask for directions to the change room. After eventually clarifying what his garbled sobs meant, I finally find myself in that room where control top panties come to die.
Digging through my bag, I extract a pair of gym pants made from some space-age material that I was assured would cover all my assets while allowing the material to "breathe". Pulling them over my cottage-cheese ridden thighs, I realize with horror that that's as far up as they're gonna go. Not wanting to shame myself or interrupt the front desk goons wailing the rosary, I pull my husband's favorite beer shirt down until it covers my knees and venture to the main gym.
Although offended by the horrified stares of the gym staff, I actually feel sorry for the smallest of them for getting shoved and locked out of the office while the others pulled the blinds and killed the lights. Introducing himself in a voice that sounds like a baby mouse whistling, I give "Matt" a firm handshake and stride to The Cardio Room.
Surveying what once must have been the cockpit of the space shuttle, I decide that the "Ellipse" machine is the least threatening, and climb aboard. Wanting to prove to all the skinny wenches in the room that Old Mother Hubbard can still kick their asses, I ignore Matt's warnings to start on Level 1 and crank the machine up to its highest volume.
Gripping the handlebars for dear life as my knee becomes airborne and connects with Matt's chin and sends him sprawling, I frantically push the "level down" button in the hopes that all my parts are still connected when it screeches to a halt. I calmly adjust my t-shirt in the giant mirror that some sadist put right in front of the machine as I wait for Matt to regain consciousness, and decide that maybe a good old-fashioned treadmill is just what I need.
Reassured that Matt can finally tell how many fingers I'm holding up, I secure the safety string to my shirt and commence strolling. Congratulating myself for my athletic prowess, I realize that this gym stuff's not so bad. I walk all the time around the house, and this is exactly like that. Except my pants only come to mid-thigh, I don't usually wheeze like this, and there's some poor guy standing beside me with his eyes rolling back in his head.
Accidentally hitting the "speed up" button as he passed out again, Matt is temporarily deposited belly-first on the treadmill with me until it catapults itself to 14 miles per hour, launching Matt backwards onto some skinny chick on a stationary bike while I find myself again hanging on for dear life.
Thinking I'm gonna be OK as my legs pinwheel like a Sylvester the Cat lawn ornament, I realize with dismay that my thigh-length space pants are squeezing their way down towards my ankles...and that the material on the space pants is the only thing on my body capable of breathing right now. Letting go of the hand grips, I press my hands against my thighs as hard as I can while duck-waddling at 14 miles per hour and trying to scream for help.
Encouraged by the moans I hear from Matt behind me, I remember with glee the safety string I so smartly attached to me before turning this beast on. Bravely letting myself roll backwards until the string elicits that sweet emergency stopping mechanism, I'm only partly aware the back of my head colliding with the front of Matt's as he bravely came from behind to save me.
Once again adjusting my shirt while waiting for Matt to rejoin the world, I admit to myself that maybe a little cottage cheese never hurt no one. Helping Matt to his feet, I thank him for his assistance, but sadly explain that I won't be coming back.
With the exertion of opening the door amplifying my wheeze to a level that almost completely drowns out Matt's tearful "THANK YOU LORD JESUS"s, I try to regain some dignity by reaching under my t-shirt and hauling my space pants back to thigh level. Finally caving under the stress, the surprisingly elastic material snaps away from my body, and delivers the mother of all towel-whips to Matt's hoo-hoo's.
Abandoning my hopes of making a graceful exit, I tippy-toe past the front desk goons that I can still see despite their attempts to camouflage themselves with the decorative fake plants, disregard the fact that I look like I'm dressed in a Heineken nightgown, and gratefully slip behind the wheel of my car.
First stop....Laura Secord....
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