Raining on my parade

I've gotta tell you, I'm pretty torqued about this friggin' hurricane.  Not that I'm worried about it blowing my apartment away, or having to stand on my roof while the storm rips my clothes off my body, or that I'll need to be rescued by a helicopter while I'm clinging naked to a tree, ass and boobs blowing in the wind (I remember seeing hurricane footage many years ago of that exact thing.  There was video coverage of a daring rescue of a large man whose clothes had been ripped off of his body, and he was buck-ass naked hanging onto a tree.  ON TV.  And they played it over and over, for years.  They even incorporated that one scene into the opening for the nightly news. I remember thinking, "That would totally be my luck... My 15 minute brush with fame would have to involve my naked ass and the most unflattering angles known to man."  Because really, there is no "GOOD side" when you're hanging on to a tree for dear life after your pants have floated down the river.  There just isn't.)


We're far enough north and inland that I doubt we'll even get residual sprinkles from all the havoc Irene will be wreaking along the east coast (though I wouldn't mind a nice storm... just not one that's going to leave me homeless and naked).  Truth be told, I haven't bought one single candle and I couldn't even tell you if we have a flashlight (though I should probably look into that).  


And I'm pretty sure we'd starve to death if we lost power or the ability to go anywhere for any length of time because the only thing in my pantry is dog food, Pupperoni, pig ears, and popcorn.  And some packets of gravy, taco seasoning, and cream of mushroom soup.  


My freezer contains ice cubes, a bottle of vodka, and a box of pot stickers.  (I have plans for all of these things, fyi.  Immediate plans, one might say.)


The fridge is filled to the brim with Diet Pepsi (there was a sale at the Price Chopper... $1.99 for an 8 pack of 24 oz bottles.  I refuse to comment on how many I bought, but I swear it wasn't eight), mustard, 47 different varieties of salad dressing, American cheese, and pickles.  


Yeah... we'd be screwed.  Or be forced to start that diet we've been talking about for 10 years.  (Is there a diet that involves vodka and American cheese?)


Meanwhile, the real reason I'm pissed at Irene is this:  Dan was supposed to go to the city Saturday to attend the Mets game.  He would leave tonight and come home Sunday.  I have consequently recorded a billion shows on the DVR, downloaded three books onto my Kindle, and made some pretty awesome plans involving lying around in my pajamas all weekend and eating nothing but popcorn.  


I was looking forward to it, dammit.


I was going to get to sleep... actually sleep... without Dan serenading me throughout the night with loud snores, snorts, and farts.  


I wasn't even going to shower or brush my teeth.  (Okay, I probably would, but only because I wanted to, not because my stink or noxious breath would be offensive to anyone else.)


 But now, Dan isn't going to go.  And the words he spoke to me last night sent shock waves of terror throughout my body:


Dan:  *casually, as if he weren't seconds away from destroying my carefully thought-out weekend and completely ruining my life*  "Since the Mets game will probably be canceled, how about we go over to <some random town I've never heard of> and go camping with Mom and Dad?"


*cue slasher music*


Me:  *shrieking a little*  "Camping?  CAMPING?"


Dan:  "Yeah... it would be fun."


Okay.  Here's where we differ:  CAMPING IS NOT FUN.  You know what's fun?  Staying in a nice hotel with a jacuzzi in the room and ordering room service and having it delivered to you while you're in the tub because you don't feel like getting out because you're soooooo relaxed and it feeels soooo goood.


You know what ISN'T fun?  Outside.  At a campground.  With bugs.  And dirt.  And no indoor plumbing.


That isn't fun.  That's work.


My parents dragged my sister and I camping every summer for the first 13 years of my life.  We didn't just CAMP, we took on the wilderness and made it our bitch.  We kayaked and canoed up rivers and down streams, finding the most remote, over-grown, bear infested places we possibly could and slept there.  We dug holes in the ground for toilets, ate freeze dried food, drank purified glacier water, set up our tents, and hated every minute of it.  I remember sitting as close as I possibly could to the campfire without catching myself on fire each night just to have enough light to read by because I was bored out of my mind.  I hated those kids whose parents took them to Hawaii and Europe, those happy carefree kids who were frolicking on beaches, sleeping in beds, and pooping indoors.  


I can't even begin to describe the years of abuse we suffered at the hands of our parents and their twisted, demented ideas of  what constituted a "vacation."


The second my sister and I left home, our parents bought an RV.  


My bitterness knows no bounds.


So even though I probably won't get wet, Irene has completely doused my plans and pissed all over my good time.  


Thanks.  Thanks a LOT.


This would NEVER happen in California.


Word.