Whew.
I feel battered.
Remember how I was all amped up and ready to fall out of my desk chair on Thursday because I was going camping with my friends for Memorial Day and we were going to braid each other's hair and tell spooky ghost stories around the campfire and rage on the river like total banshees?
That happened, and it was worth the stress breakouts, and we'll get to it later or tomorrow or something.
What I failed to mention was the fact that when I got back from said camping trip with a car of damp everything, hair reeking of some inexplicable river-campfire smoke combo, and a collective good times-hangover, I had to move.
As in change address, completely pack up my possessions in their entirety and peace out.
And THAT is how I spent my free Monday off of work.
You'd think that the extensive practice I've had lugging my crap from one corner of the country to another would improve my skill and ability to move successfully, but that would be false. Alas, I am virtually inept at such things.
The truth of the matter is that I make it not a very big deal in my head so that I don't FREAK OUT and then when I'm faced with the monstrosity of the task, completely unprepared mind you, I go into warrior mode and start throwing shit into boxes, unceremoniously throwing things away, lifting and lugging things much too heavy for me, and banging my body into things in the process.
I"m strained, bruised, and so, SO sore.
Don't get me wrong, this weekend was the best kind of wonderful. I got to spend time with the ladies living off the land and preparing food over open flames. We blared music and had cocktails and all slept in the same tent. I fucking love sleepovers. I caught some sun on my shoulders and my cheeks have finally reunited with that rosy glow that only true summer sun can bring out. I got to be pampered by my ever-impressive Manfriend with a culinary masterpiece topped off with homemade dessert and a thoughtfully DVRed few episodes of Mob Wives. He even bought my favorite champagne. And willingly gave me a back rub. WITH OIL. I couldn't make this stuff up, I swear. Either that or it was an awesome and incredibly vivid sun-induced fantasy.
But, I also may or may not have forgotten which bra I was wearing when we set up camp on Friday afternoon and collapsed into my cubicle this morning only to realize I was rampant with the odor of sweat and campfire.
SICK.
Um, I moved yesterday? I have NO idea where anything is because once again I've failed to commit to living in one place and thus all my stuff is pretty much scattered anywhere I could see myself spending an odd night or two? I don't know what the word HOME even means?!!
Thankfully I was able to jet over to Meijer and purchase myself a fresh brassiere during lunch. I changed into it in the store restroom and I can safely say that I've never felt a sense of urgency to willingly place myself into a public restroom environment so strongly.
I feel better and have an entirely different outlook on life now that I don't smell like I cooked in sweat juices over a camp fire all weekend. Although, I'm now questioning the likelihood of me ever becoming an adult. You know, since I show up to work in dirty clothes now and all.
I've got one more carload to go on the moving front and I honestly will not rest until it is finished now, 95 degree record highs BE DAMNED. I'm not letting this take up any more time than is humanly possible.
I think a nice, loooooong, swim will be in order this eve. Yahtzeeeeeee.
Xo Sara
**Side note, I've recently launched a new blog. Buttttttttt, I'll probably still be writing mostly on this one. Blah blah blah- privacy and stuff. Email if you're interested and we'll get you hooked up with some underbelly that leaves my identity feeling a little more safely anonymous.
Showing posts with label camping. Show all posts
Showing posts with label camping. Show all posts
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Thursday, May 26, 2011
i'm having stress-breakouts in anticipation of tomorrow.
Last summer my birthday-weekend plans were thwarted by two of my friends' restaurant industry jobs. If you've ever been fortunate enough to experience working at any restaurant, then you're fully aware of the near-impossibility of securing an entire weekend off. Plus, you usually miss out on a shit-ton of potential tip dollars.
Whatever, two of the crew had to cancel at the last minute, and that left Erin and I and a handle of Jim Beam. I was feeling bummy about it, but not completely defeated, so we decided to embark on an adventure that cut down a bit on the originally planned eight hour journey to my childhood lake home.
Basically, I was sitting at work in the very same cubicle I'm sitting in now, feeling kind of pissy and sort of like I was all dressed up with no place to go, but rather all amped up for a camping trip on the beach and no one to split the gas money with, and I decided that I was still going camping goddamnit.
I sort of grinded my teeth in determination and typed in the Google url. Fuck this, I'm still having a bomb-ass birthday and drinking a shitload of Beam on some body of water, somewhere.
"Indiana canoe camping river rage fun drunk"
Or something like that is what I typed in and hit enter.
And this little beauty was the first hit:
Um, sold. Well, actually I just didn't feel like shopping around and their camping policies were reeeeeally lax, so that is how Whitewater Canoe Rentals became the lucky winner and eventually the greatest place on earth.
The next day was Friday and I had taken off work in advance. Erin worked for the state at the time, which basically meant she showed up inconsistently and no one ever noticed. We departed around eleven in the morning with a cig to the wind and a prayer in our hearts. AKA we were basically completely unprepared for the events to follow.
Brookville Bound.
The website for this business doesn't provide any sort of street address or really any sort of guidance for the weary traveler. On instinct alone, (and several phone calls to my father for assistance) we landed on the Whitewater River early into the afternoon. The place looked pretty deserted. As in not a single human was milling around. It was a Friday in July. The fact that no one was around could have alarmed us, but it didn't. What it lacked in patrons, this place made up for in character, the place was brimming with it. And also flooded with the carcasses of faded, rotting, life-jackets.
What we pulled up to can probably only be described as a shack, or shanty. It's basically an old-ass pile of wood with a hand-painted sign that says "office." Erin and I looked at each other quizzically and then she hopped out of the car and approached the counter. As I followed, we were greeted by an old-ass man with bright-white hair and reaaaaaaaally rough-looking hands. Like, river rough. I'm not sure what that means, but stay with me.
He seemed to have the authority to charge us ten bucks a pop for the campsite and rent us a canoe for the day for thirty dollars. Uhhh, okay? (Cut to me scriblbling my name on the waiver after a brief skim-job.) Old Man River (OMR) walked us sloooowly down to the camping area, which he decribed as "primitive." Basically no one else had set up camp for the weekend yet, so we had the pick of the place. After collaborating on the decision like the indecisive bitches we are, we selected a site with a some trees and foliage boundary/privacy that backed up directly to the river. I'm not kidding when I say we picked the bombest ass place in the world to camp.
So OMR wanders back up to the 'office' and we're left to take it all in- and we both just let loose shit-eating grins. We're nodding, we're grabbing gear that's shrewn everywhere out of the Jeep. It's fucking on. Yes, it's just the two of us camping in a remote and unfamilar place with only one known human in the area who looks like he could crush entire skulls with his bare hands, but we've embarked past the point of no return.
About two minutes later we've both got stiff whiskey drinks in hand and blue grass setting the mood as westart making camp struggle to figure out a tent that's CLEARLY missing a pole. It's one of those dream-beautiful days of summer that you just want to hide inside all year round. Yadda Yadda Yadda, another drink gets poured, more stuff get's unpacked, sunscreen gets haphazardly applied. At one point I brazenly changed my clothes with nothing shielding me but an open car-door. That's how empty this place was.
We quickly discovered that Brookville is like entering a time-warp. Suddenly everything is on your own time. Which, I really think is how things should be all the time, but apparently it's unrealistic to ask the rest of the world to wait for my instructions to go through the daily hum-drum. Whatever. It's Brookville. Time's moving slow, the weather is perfect, and we're about to haul-ass down a river in a steel bullet of a vessel. Fuck. Yes.
We finally start seeing other hooligans walking around and making their way down the river to push off and start making an effort to head that way. We eventually get our shit together and pack provisions for the eight mile water-trip. AKA we threw some beer in the cooler, whiskey in a water bottle, and grabbed our sunglasses. In about .5 seconds we approach the launch site and are greeted by the most impressive display of abdominal muscles I have ever seen on a human male. BUT WAIT.
He has an identical twin.
I swear to everything good in this world that those abs could have washed the towel I failed to bring with me on the trip.
COULD HAVE LITERALLY RUBBED DIRT OUT OF FABRIC.
So obviously we now feel like we're in good hands and we snap on the newest-looking life jackets we can find, grab matching paddles, and join the growing pack.
We push off and I'm at stern because obviously I have to be in control and I've got years more experience with water-crafts than Erin. Not that it mattered. The next two hours can only be described accurately with two words.
Shit show.
Flip flops were broken, alcohol was consumed at an alarming rate, languid swims were taken, beaches were peed on, eight miles was covered. It was perfect.
GENUINE PERFUCKINGFECTION.
And before you go all judge-y on my ass, let me go ahead and say that I'm fully aware how unsafe mixing water and booze is. Ok? I'm sorry. It was a grand idea at the time. Everything turned out okay. We survived and thrived and actually steering the boat was probably the least challenging task I mastered through the entire trip. Alright? Ever tried to mix a drink while getting swept down a river? Relax. I'm a lifeguard.
So we complete the route and life is slightly fuzzy for us both. We have no towels- because we're geniuses, obvioously. . Everything in our lives is soaked with river-water. It's probably five thirty in the afternoon at this point. We're both a little sun-worn and definitely hammered drunk. Our ride picks us up in a sketchy looking white van and I insist on sitting in the front seat despite visible discomfort and the driver having to shuffle some important-looking papers around off the seat.
Erin and I just had the time of our lives, we were probably glowing more than a goddamn virgin bride.
We quickly learn through semi-invasive drunken questioning that the driver, Cody, is OMR's SON. They own Wonderland aka Whitewater Canoe Rentals TOGETHER. And thus starts a very beneficial friendship between us and him. AKA we chat for a minute and a half about Leonard Cohen and listen to him talk about his Chemistry degree briefly and then he gives us FREE PASSES to canoe the next day. FREE SHIT. Cody also hooks us up big time by bringing firewood to our campsite with a backhoe, helping us start a fire, and basically doing anything we say... aka driving us to the gas station for cigarettes.**
We get back to the campsite and I basically do a head-first dive into the tent and pass out for what I would imagine in real-life time frames would equate to roughly two hours. it felt like 15 minutes. I am awoken by this:
"SarasarasarasarasarasarasarasaraSARASARASARASARASARA I JUST ATE A RAW HOTDOG LET'S GO SWIMMING!!!!'
Erin's eating raw shit and now I'm sober enough to feel comfortable with more camping activities. It's pretty much perfect. Blah blah blah, we tinker around and eventually balance each other out sobriety-wise and venture down to the river. We 'swim' which basically involves just lying in about 8 inches of water and getting pulled downstream kind of strongly. Whatever, it's so magical that it doesn't matter.
Fire gets started, music gets played. People show up. Actual cooked hot dogs are consumed. And a lot of other stuff. It's a lot of getting back to earth, or as Erin has been saying for a week and a half now, getting back to basics. AND IT'S ALL GOING DOWN AGAIN TOMORROW.
WE'RE GOING BACK TO BROOKVILLE TOMORROW. BUST OUT THE EDWARD SHARPE, IT'S HOMEEEEEEEE HONKYYYYYS.
Erin and I leave at 11 am.
AND IT GET'S BETTER.
Basically, the other half of our original group no longer works at restaurants and are DEFINITELY coming as we embark on our journey to kick off summer number two on the river in style. I'm borderline worried for our health, because as much blatant disregard Erin and I can have for societal convention, I'm boiling with excitement thinking about adding two more to the mix.
Thank GOD I'm a lifeguard. I hope you're weekend is just asdrunk, sloppy, ridiculous, friend-filled and laughter-inducing.
Oh, and if you ever get the chance, hit up Brookville. Tell 'em Sara and Erin sent you. They'll know who you mean.
XO Sare
** I know the cigarettes thing is nasty, and I do apologize. This trip was clearly before I kicked that habit and moved on to lead a fit, exercise-ridden life.
Whatever, two of the crew had to cancel at the last minute, and that left Erin and I and a handle of Jim Beam. I was feeling bummy about it, but not completely defeated, so we decided to embark on an adventure that cut down a bit on the originally planned eight hour journey to my childhood lake home.
Basically, I was sitting at work in the very same cubicle I'm sitting in now, feeling kind of pissy and sort of like I was all dressed up with no place to go, but rather all amped up for a camping trip on the beach and no one to split the gas money with, and I decided that I was still going camping goddamnit.
I sort of grinded my teeth in determination and typed in the Google url. Fuck this, I'm still having a bomb-ass birthday and drinking a shitload of Beam on some body of water, somewhere.
"Indiana canoe camping river rage fun drunk"
Or something like that is what I typed in and hit enter.
And this little beauty was the first hit:
 |
| LOOK HOW MUCH FUN THEY'RE HAVING. |
Um, sold. Well, actually I just didn't feel like shopping around and their camping policies were reeeeeally lax, so that is how Whitewater Canoe Rentals became the lucky winner and eventually the greatest place on earth.
The next day was Friday and I had taken off work in advance. Erin worked for the state at the time, which basically meant she showed up inconsistently and no one ever noticed. We departed around eleven in the morning with a cig to the wind and a prayer in our hearts. AKA we were basically completely unprepared for the events to follow.
Brookville Bound.
The website for this business doesn't provide any sort of street address or really any sort of guidance for the weary traveler. On instinct alone, (and several phone calls to my father for assistance) we landed on the Whitewater River early into the afternoon. The place looked pretty deserted. As in not a single human was milling around. It was a Friday in July. The fact that no one was around could have alarmed us, but it didn't. What it lacked in patrons, this place made up for in character, the place was brimming with it. And also flooded with the carcasses of faded, rotting, life-jackets.
What we pulled up to can probably only be described as a shack, or shanty. It's basically an old-ass pile of wood with a hand-painted sign that says "office." Erin and I looked at each other quizzically and then she hopped out of the car and approached the counter. As I followed, we were greeted by an old-ass man with bright-white hair and reaaaaaaaally rough-looking hands. Like, river rough. I'm not sure what that means, but stay with me.
 |
| you have now arrived in heaven: welcome. |
He seemed to have the authority to charge us ten bucks a pop for the campsite and rent us a canoe for the day for thirty dollars. Uhhh, okay? (Cut to me scriblbling my name on the waiver after a brief skim-job.) Old Man River (OMR) walked us sloooowly down to the camping area, which he decribed as "primitive." Basically no one else had set up camp for the weekend yet, so we had the pick of the place. After collaborating on the decision like the indecisive bitches we are, we selected a site with a some trees and foliage boundary/privacy that backed up directly to the river. I'm not kidding when I say we picked the bombest ass place in the world to camp.
So OMR wanders back up to the 'office' and we're left to take it all in- and we both just let loose shit-eating grins. We're nodding, we're grabbing gear that's shrewn everywhere out of the Jeep. It's fucking on. Yes, it's just the two of us camping in a remote and unfamilar place with only one known human in the area who looks like he could crush entire skulls with his bare hands, but we've embarked past the point of no return.
About two minutes later we've both got stiff whiskey drinks in hand and blue grass setting the mood as we
We quickly discovered that Brookville is like entering a time-warp. Suddenly everything is on your own time. Which, I really think is how things should be all the time, but apparently it's unrealistic to ask the rest of the world to wait for my instructions to go through the daily hum-drum. Whatever. It's Brookville. Time's moving slow, the weather is perfect, and we're about to haul-ass down a river in a steel bullet of a vessel. Fuck. Yes.
We finally start seeing other hooligans walking around and making their way down the river to push off and start making an effort to head that way. We eventually get our shit together and pack provisions for the eight mile water-trip. AKA we threw some beer in the cooler, whiskey in a water bottle, and grabbed our sunglasses. In about .5 seconds we approach the launch site and are greeted by the most impressive display of abdominal muscles I have ever seen on a human male. BUT WAIT.
He has an identical twin.
I swear to everything good in this world that those abs could have washed the towel I failed to bring with me on the trip.
COULD HAVE LITERALLY RUBBED DIRT OUT OF FABRIC.
So obviously we now feel like we're in good hands and we snap on the newest-looking life jackets we can find, grab matching paddles, and join the growing pack.
We push off and I'm at stern because obviously I have to be in control and I've got years more experience with water-crafts than Erin. Not that it mattered. The next two hours can only be described accurately with two words.
Shit show.
Flip flops were broken, alcohol was consumed at an alarming rate, languid swims were taken, beaches were peed on, eight miles was covered. It was perfect.
GENUINE PERFUCKINGFECTION.
And before you go all judge-y on my ass, let me go ahead and say that I'm fully aware how unsafe mixing water and booze is. Ok? I'm sorry. It was a grand idea at the time. Everything turned out okay. We survived and thrived and actually steering the boat was probably the least challenging task I mastered through the entire trip. Alright? Ever tried to mix a drink while getting swept down a river? Relax. I'm a lifeguard.
So we complete the route and life is slightly fuzzy for us both. We have no towels- because we're geniuses, obvioously. . Everything in our lives is soaked with river-water. It's probably five thirty in the afternoon at this point. We're both a little sun-worn and definitely hammered drunk. Our ride picks us up in a sketchy looking white van and I insist on sitting in the front seat despite visible discomfort and the driver having to shuffle some important-looking papers around off the seat.
Erin and I just had the time of our lives, we were probably glowing more than a goddamn virgin bride.
We quickly learn through semi-invasive drunken questioning that the driver, Cody, is OMR's SON. They own Wonderland aka Whitewater Canoe Rentals TOGETHER. And thus starts a very beneficial friendship between us and him. AKA we chat for a minute and a half about Leonard Cohen and listen to him talk about his Chemistry degree briefly and then he gives us FREE PASSES to canoe the next day. FREE SHIT. Cody also hooks us up big time by bringing firewood to our campsite with a backhoe, helping us start a fire, and basically doing anything we say... aka driving us to the gas station for cigarettes.**
We get back to the campsite and I basically do a head-first dive into the tent and pass out for what I would imagine in real-life time frames would equate to roughly two hours. it felt like 15 minutes. I am awoken by this:
"SarasarasarasarasarasarasarasaraSARASARASARASARASARA I JUST ATE A RAW HOTDOG LET'S GO SWIMMING!!!!'
Erin's eating raw shit and now I'm sober enough to feel comfortable with more camping activities. It's pretty much perfect. Blah blah blah, we tinker around and eventually balance each other out sobriety-wise and venture down to the river. We 'swim' which basically involves just lying in about 8 inches of water and getting pulled downstream kind of strongly. Whatever, it's so magical that it doesn't matter.
Fire gets started, music gets played. People show up. Actual cooked hot dogs are consumed. And a lot of other stuff. It's a lot of getting back to earth, or as Erin has been saying for a week and a half now, getting back to basics. AND IT'S ALL GOING DOWN AGAIN TOMORROW.
WE'RE GOING BACK TO BROOKVILLE TOMORROW. BUST OUT THE EDWARD SHARPE, IT'S HOMEEEEEEEE HONKYYYYYS.
Erin and I leave at 11 am.
AND IT GET'S BETTER.
Basically, the other half of our original group no longer works at restaurants and are DEFINITELY coming as we embark on our journey to kick off summer number two on the river in style. I'm borderline worried for our health, because as much blatant disregard Erin and I can have for societal convention, I'm boiling with excitement thinking about adding two more to the mix.
Thank GOD I'm a lifeguard. I hope you're weekend is just as
Oh, and if you ever get the chance, hit up Brookville. Tell 'em Sara and Erin sent you. They'll know who you mean.
XO Sare
** I know the cigarettes thing is nasty, and I do apologize. This trip was clearly before I kicked that habit and moved on to lead a fit, exercise-ridden life.
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