So, camping. Ever been camping? You know, the real sort. In a tent, cooking over fires and wiping with leaves? (Side note...I watch too many kid movies and now quote them in my head all day long. Just now I thought to myself, "Who wipes?!" Random useless 10 points to anyone out there in blogland that knows who doesn't wipe.) I'd say that I've been camping on 3 levels. The grandparents' RV...tents with little public restrooms a fair walk away...and the camping trip that stands out above the rest. The real sort. But we had toilet paper.
I always hated camping. Some hippie, eh? No, my hatred is almost entirely based upon my fear of moths. And butterflies. Creepy boogers, no? Anyhow, the blasted things frequent campsite bathrooms like you would not believe. You would not believe it because I'd wager the average sane person doesn't even notice they're there. But the tiniest sleepy winged fuzzball will set my heart racing and my stomach lurching even when I'm not expected to shower with it. That said, camping never much got me excited.
But once I went on a weekend camping trip with a friend of mine during my freshman year of high school in Georgia. Her family had property up in the north part of the state somewhere, I forget the name of the place. I can't honestly remember why I decided to go in the first place. Guilt, possibly. A general inability to state my own opinion in the face of someone else's wishes. Not sure. But I was dreading it...right up until the moment we drove into a lovely little clearing surrounded by sun dappled woods. There was a creek, complete with silky, sparkling rocks. Little hills all about. I have a terribly flawed remembering mechanism so I only recall bits of the trip. One bit, I refused to poo, worried that the boys along with us would "walk in" on me. When pooing in the woods there's no doors, you see. And when you're 15 there's no way in hell you're going to risk getting caught defecating by a load of boys, even if they are younger and you have to suffer a bit of discomfort from holding in. But aside from this charming recollection, I remember cramming into a tent with something like 8 people and waking up wet from rain and/or dew that had made it inside. I remember the freshness of the air. The purity of being there like we were. And I remember an afternoon sitting beside, and eventually in, the creek with the girl. I do not remember any moths.
Ah, reminiscing. Way to bore the bloglings.
In other news, one week going strong chocolate free! Exciting until one realizes that it's still 93 days to the finish line. My husband, D (wink), is not much help. He tried to convince me that chocolate milk is somehow not classified as chocolate and that I should have some. He's given up his beverage of choice, the dreaded Coca-Cola, until I can have chocolate again. His logic was that his drinking of chocolate milk is like a substitute for Coke so therefore it would serve as a substitute for my chocolate. This is very flawed, as I pointed out to him, because chocolate milk does indeed contain...well, chocolate. But my will triumphed, I'm glad to say. And ladies, those of you who can no doubt sympathize (or empathize?), it is that time when resisting is most difficult. Ahem. As I've already discussed poo, I'll not go into such an indelicate subject. But hear me, girls. I know you do.
Alright. I'll wrap up with a bit of nature's cuteness. No fuzzy bunnies here. On our walk this evening I found this...I also stumbled upon a decapitated yellow bird. By stumbled upon I mean that my daughter nearly sat on it. It looked the work of pussycats. But this little treasure lit up my day. When I showed it to Colson, she said "Baby dinosaurs?"
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