Roughing It

I’m going camping this weekend.

And not the kind of camping I’m used to –the “hey, there’s a hotel near the Grand Canyon” kind of camping.

No, this is the kind of camping that involves tents, and sleeping on the ground, and cooking over a campfire. Camping that involves camp stuff.

Not sure how I got myself into this one. I am going with a great group of people, so maybe I let personalities cloud my normally rational and comfortable judgment.

Prepping for the trip has been fun. Found that old sleeping bag in the back of the closet. Relearned the meaning of “deet.” And bought a tent.

Although the tent concerns me. I realized after the purchase that nowhere on the box does it mention that an air conditioner is included. They wouldn’t sell a portable room without an air conditioner in this day and age, would they?

I plan on making the time whirl by faster by pretending that I’m on a new Survivor-type reality show. Even before I set up my tent, I’m creating a confessional area, where I can go and complain about my fellow cast mates to the cameras.

“I was trying to start a fire,” wheeze, cry, “and Vicki was so mean,” wheeze, cry, “saying I was striking the wrong side of the match,” cry, wheeze, “and I’m like, how am I supposed to know that?”

I’m ready with my rant against Shon. I suggested we add Spam to the shopping list, and he wouldn’t take me seriously. I hope he loses the immunity challenge.

Okay, I hear you. “Spam?” you say. “Seriously? Spam? The sham ham?”

You must understand that when I was growing up, I thought Spam was food reserved for the wealthy and socially elite.

As most of you know, I come from a family of twelve siblings. We were not eaters of extravagant foods. We did not eat caviar, or calamari, or croissants. We did not drink champagne, or cognac, or claret. And we rarely ever ate Spam.

Except on very special occasions. These occasions were often camping trips (hence my current yen). And these Spam events had two specific characteristics:

My dad was in charge of cooking.

And my mom wasn’t around.

I used to believe that my dad was taking the opportunity to splurge on his children, toss a taste of the high life our way. But maybe it was just that he couldn’t inflict his love of ham product on his children while his wife was around to protect them.

By the way, dad gets the final laugh: his granddaughter is now working for Hormel.

Who knows? Maybe I’ll get some Spam this weekend after all. One can always hope for the better life.

Just my thoughts,

Sean