Cool Moments in Teaching

One great thing about my job(s) is that every day is a new adventure.  Sometimes the adventure is the “sit on the deck of a cruise ship sipping something naughty from a pineapple” type and sometimes it’s the “root canal while drinking ice water without the good happy gas” type.  Fortunately, I spend more days sipping from proverbial pineapples than getting root canals but I sure wouldn’t turn down a thank-you tank of happy gas now and then!

Today was one of those cruise ship days.  Rather exhausting but full of little moments that make you want to hum on your way home.  During science class, some students spun orbit simulators over their heads to investigate how weight effects orbit while others used latex sheets and water balloons to investigate orbital pathways using a marble.  No one was injured, nothing got broke, and they all looked ridiculous wearing the safety goggles.  It’s always a good day when goggles are involved. 

As a service learning project, all 58 of my students are learning to knit.  Yep, even the boys.  The Needle Arts Mentoring Project donated all the  needles and some start-up yarn.  I just had to be brave enough to give pointy sticks to 12 year olds!  Their mission is to knit at least one 6×9 inch rectangle to be sent to the Afghan Project: an organization that assembles rectangles into afghans for wounded soldiers recovering in the hospital.  One of the boys has become so addicted to knitting that he has challenged himself to knit a continuous narrow scarf that will go around the mile track.  He’s got 30 feet done.  Only 5000+ to go!  Two of the girls came to me today and needed advice on basketweave and stripe patterns.  They only learned to knit 10 weeks ago.  At least 20 of the students carry their knitting everywhere throughout the day.  It’s a great feeling knowing that I’ve helped others to learn that knitting can give you a sense of accomplishment and peace.  They’ll have 30 more years to enjoy it than I will.

I just returned from teaching my college class.  It looks like I’ll be teaching two next semester!  If the details can be worked out, I’ll be teaching Technology in Education along with my Intro to Scientific Inquiry course.  Tonight I watched as 16 adults measured things using toothpicks, learned about the reproductive habits of bees, and played with prisms and laser pointers.  Everything was new and exciting and I learned that college students still want to make laser pointer swirlies on the ceiling.  Not much changes from sixth grade! 

Whether the students are 12 or 22 seems to make little difference.  They all remind me of why I have chalk dust on my butt and overhead marker on my face.  Because of what I do, there are dozens of people home tonight talking about the cool thing that spun, the new stitch they learned, or how many sparkles an engagement ring produces when a laser pointer hits it.  Not one could say they answered questions in a text book and I’m not the least bit upset by that.  

www.braindebris.wordpress.com

The Immortal Rabbit

Looks Innocent Doesn't He

It all started when my then 8 year old wanted a pet.  As animal lovers we weren’t too surprised by this so we went through the catalog of small creatures that poop and he decided upon a rat.  Yep, you read that right.  We piled into the car and found a cute little rat and bought him a cute little harness with a leash.  David trained the rat to do a few tricks and the thing would sit on his shoulder and nibble treats.  It walked around the house on the leash and climbed up his leg.  But in just a few short weeks the rat took playing dead very seriously and that was the end of the rat.  No sniffles, no hacking cough, just dead.  David was devastated.  Enter the guinea pig.

The guinea pig was having nothing to do with any of that trick nonsense.  It’s favorite game was playing keep away from the pick-me-up giant.  It ate and squeaked and three weeks later had a stroke.  Yep, lost all use of its hind quarters and died shortly after.  David was again devastated,  I was suspicious.  Two critters in just a few months?  I suspected we had a serial pet murderer.  But with no forensic evidence and a blubbering 8 year old, we piled into the car to find…….the rabbit.  (I figured what the heck.  The thing was lucky if it lived 3 months.)

We traversed pet stores far and wide until we finally found Rex.  He was the only living Norwegian Dwarf bunny in a 100 mile radius.  He was tiny and fluffy and cute and David couldn’t put him down.  We left the store with the necessary bunny necessities and began counting the days until the rabbit’s demise.

To digress just a bit….Did you know that a child could be perfectly capable of snuggling and eskimo kissing a rat and a guinea pig yet be allergic to a rabbit?  Yep.  Puffy eyes, sniffly nose, guess who gets to take care of the rabbit.  Shouldn’t be too bad right?  It’s days are numbered.

Flash to 11 long years later.  The good news is we have exonerated all residents of pet murder.  The bad news is I’m still taking care of this freakin rabbit!  I swear the thing is immortal.  Rabbits are the equivalent of lettuce.  They live to be the bottom of the food chain.  They eat and poop. 

Which brings us to this morning.  I always put it off until the last minute in the hopes that I’ll wake up one morning and Rex will no longer be in residence.  No such luck today.  Darn thing is still breathing.   I had to clean the cage. 

I began by trying to catch him before he took a nose dive into his box.  As I was holding onto squiggling hind legs, I drug him out and in a deft maneuver of skill, flung him up to my chest while avoiding flailing bunny nails.  We both calmed down some while breathing heavily then began the next phase of excitement: depositing Rex into the travel cage.  Not a moment earlier I was trying to pry this critter out of a hole yet when confronted with the opening of a travel cage this rabbit can throw all four legs out to form an X incapable of fitting through the doorway.  Pinning his forelegs to his body I managed to stuff the rabbit into his temporary quarters and shut the door.   In a moment of pure maturity, I then stuck my tongue out at him because Iiiiiiii wooooonnn.  Then I looked down at my shirt and noticed the streaks of who knows what and turned to see the rabbit sticking his tongue out at me.  It seems it was a draw.

Maneuvering my plus sized frame into the minus sized cage opening, I retrieved various bowls, toy carrots, and towels full of rabbit fur (because as we all know rabbits in the wild decorate their nests with old towels and $4 carrot toys).  I then groaned as I noticed that the poop to poop catcher ratio had been exceeded and went off to find something to reduce the pile.  I believe it took over an hour because I’m so darned organized that I had nothing sitting around with which to scoop poop.  That or I was avoiding it. 

I settled on a cardboard box flap and began the ever so elegant task of having my ass sticking out of a rabbit cage while I spread poop around the mesh trying to make it all fall through the little holes.  I believe this should be a video game as it was very entertaining.  I finally felt it was safe to remove the pan hanging under the cage so I gave it a tug.  Didn’t budge.  So I gave it a bigger tug.  Nope.  I then braced my feet against the legs of the cage and attempted to rip the cage apart with my bare hands.  That cage must have finally realized I was serious because that pan of poop flew out from under there at warp speed and proceeded to distribute its contents all over the floor.  As I turned to give the rabbit a dirty look I could swear it was laughing.

Enter the dog.  You’ve previously met Prancer as the pooch afraid of mice.  Well she’s also none too pleased when any other creature gets too much of her share of attention.  She was also concerned that the rabbit might have dropped anything edible into the litter and began to snuffle through it like a pig searching for truffles.  I then had a floor full of poop, a shirt streaked with who knows what, a rabbit laughing its ass off, and a dog nose deep in litter.  I was beginning to regret that one of my children wasn’t a serial pet murderer.

I swept up the litter, dropped the pan in the bathtub (don’t you dare judge me), and filled a bucket with hot water and pinesol.  With the dog sucked to my leg for some unexplained reason, I began washing the bars of the cage wondering how much pinesol it would take to asphyxiate a rabbit when the bucket I so wisely had placed on top of the cage gracefully slid off the side  in slow motion to empty itself onto me and the floor.  I believe the rabbit filmed the whole episode and the footage will be appearing on UTube any day now. 

Now did I happen to mention the flies?  The rabbit has sublet and is sharing residence with a family of flies.  I wouldn’t mind so much if they just shared his little dwelling but they seem to venture out routinely to drive me nuts.  Given that my humor was fading fast, I decided if I couldn’t kill the rabbit I was going to exterminate his little friends and located one of those tubes of sticky fly paper.  Feeling very empowered, I pulled that sticky swirl of death out and proceeded to the corner above the cage to set my trap of revenge.  With the dog still under my feet and the floor wet and smelling pine fresh, I leaned over the cage to hang the fly strip on a little hook and slipped.  Yes folks, I can now honestly say I have experienced the feeling of having  fly paper stuck in my hair, across my face, and down my shirt.  There are just no words.  I will leave you with that image.

With wet socks, sticky hair, a streaked shirt, and a bathtub full of soaking poop pan, I washed my hands and ate a piece of cold pizza.  No one deserved a bit of stress eating more than I did at that very moment. 

Needless to say the adventure did finally end.  I scrubbed the poop pan, unclogged the bathtub drain, cleaned the floor, reassembled the cage, washed my hair, changed my clothes, and refrained from killing the rabbit.  After all, he has a clean cage and that rabbit is damn well going to live to enjoy it.

This blog is the intellectual property of braindebris@wordpress.com.

When Guage Attacks

Every payday my husband and I go out for payday date night.  We treck to our favorite chinese restaraunt then jaunt over to the bookstore for coffee.  He grabs a pile of tropical fish and remote control hobby magazines and cools my coffee while I search for the latest and greatest teacher resource or knitting book.  We used to be faithful Barnes and Noble goers but they failed to consult us on their planned move to the mall.  We are not pleased.  So lately we’ve been gracing Borders with our presence.  Much smaller selection but better coffee.  It’s a trade.

A few weeks ago I was happily digesting pepper chicken and sipping my caramel machiatto substitute when I happened upon the coolest pattern.  It’s the Neck Warmer Hat in the book Knitted Gifts by Ann Budd.  It’s knit on circuluar needles until it’s 11 inches long.  You put a few eyelet holes near the top, knit a length of I-cord to string through, and you’ve got yourself a hat that can be cinched at the top, pulled down around your neck, or opened part way to let your hair hang out.  Cool huh! 

Now those of you who know me may be wondering why I think this hat pattern is cool.  After all, I hate hats.  I’ll wear ear muffs or a head band thing but I’d rather shiver than wear a hat.  They are itchy and too tight and my hair tends to point in a thousand staticky directions when I take them off.  Men have tried to get me to wear hats and eat seafood for years. 

So I see this hat pattern and I think, “If this thing can fit down your face and loosely, yet seductively, rest around your neck then it can’t be tight.”  Then I think, “And if I knit it myself I can use the softest yarn and it won’t be scratchy and itchy.”  Then I realize, “If my hair is sticking out all over the place no one will think to notice the width of my hips!”  See, Cool Hat Pattern!

Pattern in hand I get home and look through my stash and find three balls of the fluffiest wool and angora blend yarn you can find.  Enough yardage?  Check.  Correct weight?  No idea.  Well no matter because I am a knitter and it’s close enough.  It’s a flexible hat so we can be flexible with the yarn.

Then I search through my needles for a circular size 7.  Well, better go 8 because I’m a little bit of a tight knitter and always have to use one size larger.  Hmmmm, only had a size 10.  But they are Addi Turbos (magic needles) and maybe I’m a tighter knitter than I think so….close enough.  After all, I don’t like hats because they are tight.  If it’s a little looser than expected that would be great!

So I cast on the required 126 stitches and knit about 3 inches when I look down and realize I’m knitting a skirt for a plus size woman.  Hmmmmmm, maybe a size 10 needle was a tad too much.  But never fear, in my infinite knitting wisdom I put the hat starter (not to be confused with gravy starter . . . family joke) on my head, pinch the excess hat, count the pinched off stitches (I’m so darn clever), and decide if I had just cast on 90 stitches instead of 126 the thing would be perfect!  I cross my fingers and pray the angora/wool can be frogged and meet with success.  (Thank you knitting Goddess!) 

Try number 2.  I cast on 90 stitches and happily knit away until I get to 9 inches and am ready for the eyelet row.  Things look perfect!  Then I try it on.  (I just love circular needles.)  Just a tad bit loose.  BUT if I fold the ribbing up it tightens things just right.  Guess I had better add one more inch to the length to account for that folding up business.  A few more inches and I’m binding off feeling rather proud of myself.  I can now say I’m experienced enough to make adjustments to a tube of yarn that will slide over my head.  Looses some umpgh when put that way but it was a darn good moment!

Feeling very snappy I dug up a few size 7 double points and knit 3 whole stitches until I had over 3 feet of hat rope.  I figured might as well use the recommended needle size.  After all, why take chances.  I laced my I-Cord through the eyelets and pulled that tube of flexible warmth over my head.  Just as I predicted….soft, loose, I could wear this hat.  So I did. 

With a few minor adjustments it will be PERFECT!

Unfortunately, the longer I wore it the looser it got.  In fact, it got quite loose.  At times it slid off the back of my head but I was not deterred!  It was a labor of hope and knitting confidence and I just can’t abandon my dream hat.  As I see it, I have only two alternatives.  I can frog it or I can felt it.  If I frog it I can give that recommended needle size a try and see what happens.  If I felt it I wouldn’t have to spend another two weeks knitting it again but it might become a grapefruit cozy.  I think I’ll leave it in my basket with the 1/2 finished Booby Socks until it decides what it wants me to do.  I’m on to knitting a shawl.  It doesn’t care what size I make it!

Boo!

I thought Halloween would be a fitting time to dust off a few cobwebs and rise from the crypt of undead bloggers.  In case you’re wondering what I plan to be for this wonderous pagan holiday, I’m leaning toward “chubby chick stuffing her face with pizza”.  I figure the world has all the princesses and cheerleaders it needs.  Be forewarned trick or treaters:  anyone coming to my house begging for candy with a size 2 waist gets gum.  I reserve chocolate for people who know how to appreciate it!

Well, where to begin?  I believe my first task should be to apologize to my fans for staying away so long.  I’m sorry to both of you.  It seems while I am away, Val faithfully checks every week to see if I have imparted any wisdom to the masses.  Hi Val!  How’s your dog?  I’m sorry to have kept you in suspense.  My fellow blogger and mitochondrial DNA source peeks in from time to time too.  After all, it’s so hard to keep in touch when all you have are telephones, email, and Facebook.  Hi Mom!   And for the record, my blog has not been abandoned, I have been vicariously napping through it.

Alrighty then. . . awkward silence.  When I logged on I had this whole mental list of things I could chat about.  Each one was amazingly insightful and witty.  What I hadn’t counted on was the constant commentary on Craig’s list coming from the next room.  Each time I begin a thought I’m regaled with shouted details of someone’s used boat batteries or the cost of particle shelving.  Yes folks, my husband is a Craig’s List lurker and feels the need to share a plethora of electronic yard sale items with me.  No respect for my creative juices I tell you!  How am I expected to concentrate with all these fleeting insignificant interruptions?  THAT’S IT!  I’m not chubby or retaining water.  My creative juices are backing up.  I’m retaining verbage.  Whew!  Gotta run, pizzas here. 

 This blog is property of Braindebris@wordpress.com so back away from that copy/paste bucko and think for yourself!

Sissy Hunting Dog and the Dissappearing Blogger

Sounds like a Nancy Drew mystery doesn’t it?!  Yes, I am still among the living.  I’ve discovered that my life is just too busy to dedicate an entire block of time to daily blogging.  Maybe if the computer had a stick with a truffle hanging from it chearing me on.  I’m quite sure I’ve lost my entire entourage of 3 readers due to my extended absence but I can always email my mother and get one back!

So what could inspire me, other than a truffle, to tippy type my way back into blogging fame?  My dog. 

Prancer is an 11 year old Shiba Enu.  Her ancestors were bred in Japan to hunt small game on the sides of mountains.  Apparently, someone forgot to inform Prancer of her illustrious heritage.

She’s always had a few little quirky habits.  When she gets a new bone she carries it around the house for extended periods of time while whining.  Loudly.  She then puts the bone in her bed and lays down next to it.  Apparently bones require a place of honor and comfort.  She doesn’t chew her toys up but does nibble them to death.  She will not sit on a couch or a bed if another human is on them but does make exceptions if it’s thundering outside or no one’s home and she needs a place to deposit fur.  She is also very selective with who gets the honor of letting her outside.  She will sooner explode than tinkle for just anyone.  (Unless you are a vet, an employee of the vet, or a distant relative of the vet.  Any of which will be rewarded by copius amounts of solids and liquids spewing at high vilocity in several directions.)  Which leads us to “the ritual”.

Having such high standards for letter-outers leads a dog to have frequent middle of the night regrets.  It seems that refusing to go outside most of the evening catches up with the bladder around 3am.  Coincidently, this is also the time when various rabbits, raccoons, and stray dogs are cruising through the yard but we’re sure that has nothing to do with it.  So last night when Prancer began her  “scratch at the bedroom door and hope someone lets me in to let me out” ritual, we weren’t buying it.  (And before you all ask why we don’t just let her sleep in the bedroom with us, she won’t.  We’ve tried that.)

She began at the son’s door.  After ignoring it the best he could he let her in.  She layed down just long enough for him to fall asleep before she began pawing his hair.  Once he covered his head with a quilt she became discouraged and started in at my bedroom door.  After shouting “go lay down” as quietly as I could several times I finally got up and let her in.  She sucked her little shedding body to the side of my bed until I stopped petting her then proceeded to scratch the carpet while spinning in circles.  (We’ve learned the scratching is universal doggy communication for “if you’re not going to get up and move my bed then I’ll just have to dig to China before I’m comfortable.”)  Surprisingly, once she settled in she fell asleep.  I should have known something was up. 

When I woke up in this morning Prancer sucked herself to my leg and followed me through the house and into the bathroom.  It wasn’t until the return trip, with her still stuck to my leg like a leech, that I saw it.  A mouse.  Yes ladies and gentlemen, my purebred Japanese hunting dog is terrified of mice.  Well, thunder and mice.  And vets.  Usually she whines when a creature enters her part of the house but I figure she’s getting old.  The panic of the previous night is just the doggy dimensia setting in.  Like her new habit of barking at the front door when you set a glass down in the kitchen but not when someone is knocking on the front door.  Until…………it moved.  (At this point I began scratching on the bedroom door and whining for my husband.  I felt her pain.)

It seems while we were peacefully sleeping, my dog was being terrorized by a mouse who managed to get stuck, but not injured, in a plastic trap.  It’s little back legs were scootching all over the floor like a kid that had crawled into a pillow case to find the last oreo cookie.  (Now don’t tell me you never hid oreo cookies in your pillowcase!)  I can imagine her terror as she scratched on door after door while the dreaded vampire frankenstein mouse scootched nearer and nearer.  Apparently jumping on the couch hadn’t crossed her mind. 

To make up for the trauma, we gave her a bone which she proceeded to carry around while whining and fretting over where to put it.  To add insult to doggy injury, my son looked at her and said, “Poor puppy, and you expected ME to get up and take care of a mouse?”  I’m not sure it was the kind of sympathy she was hoping for.

So here I am, apologizing to my elderly nuerotic dog.  See you at 3am.

www.braindebris.wordpress.com

No Wonder Doctors are 12

My week has been a conglomerate of little projects that have kept me from finishing any one thing.  My soldier son has gone active (that will be another post), I’m fighting with a nasty EBay person, and I seem to have reached the end of my formal education.

A few weeks ago I would have adamantly denied my interest in pursuing a doctorate.  I learned while acquiring my masters that I love to conduct research but I’m not so fond of writing about it until I puke.  I did think about the idea long and hard.  I spoke with several people who have doctorates or are pursuing them.  I weighed the advantages and disadvantages: not much advantage in the education field unless you want to feel important or be a superintendent or professor.  I looked at lifetime salary increases versus the cost of 96 more credit hours.  (I don’t have enough life left to pay for another 96 credit hours!)  And just to give writing up the research a side in the argument, I bought a book called Write Your Dissertation in 15 Minutes a Day.   In the end, I made peace with the decision that a doctorate just wasn’t for me.

Then I woke up Monday.  It’s almost August and I’m not registered for any classes.  Stores are selling school supplies and I have no need to look at the latest and greatest note taking ink pens.  I’m going to have to start paying back student loans!  I’m not a student anymore!  UUUUGGGGGG!  In fact, according to my college licensing board, I am in a position to renew my teaching license until 2027 without taking another class!  I could retire by then!

While many people can’t wait to get out of school, I enjoyed college.  (Well, there was the one professor that screamed at us all the time, never knew what she had assigned, and answered every question with, “You people think you’re smarter than me.   I have a doctorate.”  Could have lived without her!  But then the adorable (insert drool) physics professor who wore surfer shorts and flipflops in winter made up for her.)  The thought of not working towards an achievement, of not having a defined goal, is more terrifying than the thought of having to write that stupid dissertation! 

So I opened the phone book and started the search.  With a 4.0 and maxed scores on my exams, I didn’t have a concern about who would accept me so I started with the university closest to me and spread out from there.  Indiana University: have to spend two summers on the Bloomington campus.  Can’t do but the most likely option.  Purdue University: have to drive 4 hours one night a week to take a class.  Can’t do.  Ball State: many classes online but not all and would have to take a leave of absence from work.  Can’t do.  Notre Dame: I have a department chair willing to sponsor me but I’d have to leave my job.  Can’t do. 

It seems that you can either focus all your attention on going to school or on doing the job you went to school for.  You can’t have both.  I wasn’t ready to start this when I was younger and now that I’m older I have too many other commitments to devote all my time to it.  No wonder all the doctors look like Doogy Howzer.  You have to jump in there before your life starts!  Having started my career in my late 30’s, I want to enjoy it.  So my new plan is to teach until I retire while keeping my radar out for a program that I can complete while working.  If nothing turns up, I take advantage of reduced tuition for senior citizens and get my picture in the paper for being the oldest doctoral candidate in my class!

www.braindebris.wordpress.com

Our Snazzy Camper: The Pictures

Nothing like the warm welcoming light from a fishnet clad leg to welcome you back to the camper.

 

We set up the 10×20 awning in case we needed shade from the shade.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Yep, our very own pool.  It even has a deep end and a shallow end.  Who needs pool volleyball when you can play pool ladder ball or pool bean bag toss while watching the fire?

 

 

 

Ice in your mixed drink anyone?

 

 

 

   Yep, we’re roughin it.

 

 

 

 

 

  The master suite.  (Yep, there’s a full bathroom behind that curtain.)  We did decide the television hiding behind the bench was a bit much.  We’ve replaced it with a digital flat screen

 

 

www.braindebris.wordpress.com

Ink Blots and Tan Lines

Any fan of old movies has, more than once, witnessed a mustached man with an accent ask a blond woman with an airy voice and an abundance of cleavage for her opinion of the meaning of stains on pieces of cardboard.  I’m not sure what the answers were supposed to say about a person, but I do believe you couldn’t go wrong by saying, “butterfly”.

It seems the new form of ink blots are tan lines.  Camping for 10 days has given me several opportunities to witness tanning and conversations about tanning.  As my eavesdropping has informed me, tan lines speak volumes about a person and bystanders are more than willing to interpret the message.  If you are ever asked by a mustached man with an accent to interpret female tan lines, here are some answers that should keep you from the straight jacket:

1.    If her tan lines do not line up with the swim suit she’s wearing, she owns more than one suit.  She’s obviously too skinny and we don’t like her.  (Chubby women own one swimsuit and had to drink copius amounts of martini to endure the humiliation of shopping for it.  We don’t own two.)

2.  If she looks tan but there are no tan lines, she either has regular appointments at the tanning salon or she sunbathes nude.  Either way, she’s got money to spend on tanning and she’s too skinny.  We don’t like her.  (Just try to pry these clothes off my body in the name of tanning.  I dare you.)

While I’m sure the list goes on, it got me wondering what my tan lines say about me. 

    Impressive aren’t they.  That’s the whole show folks.  I’m tan no where else.  As if I would subject innocent campers to any more of my body than neccessary! 

Yes ladies and gentlemen, this is the extent of my tan lines.  Notice the lovely hue to my toes (which are painted patriotically with flags).  Should I choose to wear dress pants with open toed shoes I’ll be set.  Above the lovely criss-crossed pattern reminiscent of being sizzled on the barbeque grill, I have one shade of pink topped with a ravishing shade of red (it will turn brown eventually!).  What the picture doesn’t show is that the red stops there.  (Yep, wearing capris.)

Now what do you think I’m supposed to do with this?  If I sunbathe nude for awhile do you think it will even out?  Ya. Right.  On both the evening out and the nude part. I could just wear those sandals and capris for the rest of the summer.  How fashionable.  The worst part will be listening to the chuckle when the nice lady who puts flags on my toes sees them.  It appears they are the chuckle that keeps on giving. 

So given that people have definite opinions of a person based on their tan lines, what does this say about me?  My toes are the only thing skinny enough to warrant make-up and pampering?  I secretly desire char grilled steak, medium rare?  I prefer to go with: she spent ten days on a lounge chair reading trashy romance novels while sipping pineapple juice and Malibu Rum

www.braindebris.wordpress.com

Our Ten Day Camping Extravaganza

After spending nearly two decades as Scout leaders (camping on little pads and eating food cooked by 11 year olds) my husband and I decided to find grown up camping friends (defined as those who sleep in beds and drink alcohol around the campfire).  While researching pop-up camping trailers, we came across an online club forum for people who want to get together, camp, and share their love of tent trailers:  The Great Lakes Pop-Up Club.

The first time we met with the group our camper was still being built (a 2007 Jayco 12HW).  They were camping at a state park not too far from our home so we decided to join them for the Saturday evening potluck.  We decided ahead of time to drive by the group slowly and if we heard dueling banjos or if anyone had a snake wrapped around their neck we would take our tray of brownies and keep driving.  Thankfully, they were all just people who liked to camp and we’ve since spent many enjoyable weekends sharing campfires with them.

Every year, members from five states descend upon a campground and this year it was our state’s turn to host the Rally.  We decided to make it our vacation and reserved a site for ten days.  It’s our longest camping trip so far and packing for it has made me reflect on those people who build big houses after their kids move out.

When the boys were little, camping consisted of a tent, sleeping bags, and a cooler full of hot dogs and marshmallows.  It all fit in the trunk of the car.  Three kids and a dog in the back seat, stop at White Castle on the way to the campground, and you’re good for the weekend.  You would think now that the kids are grown, provisions would only take 1/2 of a car trunk.  Nope.  The leg lamp alone takes 6 square feet.  Yes, the leg lamp.  Camping isn’t what it used to be folks!

 As I sit at my trailer table, next to the leg lamp, I am blogging at my computer with a wireless card and my cell phone and digital camera are sitting next to me.  (The flat screen tv hooked to adjustable rooftop antenna is only a few feet away.)  Above the 3 cubic foot refrigerator, the ice maker is churning out ice to keep our 3 coolers nice and frigid.  The aroma of coffee is scenting the air while the convection oven/microwave is cooking muffins.  Fortunately, it’s cool enough to have the windows unzipped because the air conditioner will freeze you out and my hair is wet from just showering in my camper bathroom.  It has been cold at night surprisingly so I’m glad we have heated mattresses.

Yes ladies and gentlemen,  this is what camping has become.  I’ve gone from the whole family and all the gear fitting in one vehicle to pulling a trailer with a loaded SUV while my husband follows behind in the pickup.  When non-campers say they don’t enjoy the outdoors I just have to chuckle.  I’ve got better accomodations than I’ve had at many hotels!

(It was my intent to include some pictures but I can’t get them uploaded.  I’ll include them in another post.)

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Post-it Note Wills and the Dress Boobs

Yes, it does seem boobs are a theme around here but it’s inevitable when you’ve grown up in a boob obsessed family.  My grandfather was the grand boob-a (get it!  Pooh-ba…….boob-ba…….)  All through the 70’s, Dolly Parton greeted you at the door of his workshop.  Even though I hadn’t grown to full height, I was quite sure that those glossy boobs were about eye level for a tall man.  Hmmmm.  It did give me something to look up to.  Or shelter if a pipe burst.

As my mom’s blog mentioned (http://savanvleck.wordpress.com/2008/06/28/things-i-miss-by-clicking/), Grampa had a love affair with televisions.  After his retirement, many of us were convinced he felt remote controls were an adult toy.  At the push of a button you could summon boobs of all shapes and sizes.  If boobs moved off the screen you need only to click to a new channel and another pair was waiting to entertain.  I remember visiting one day and wondering why he was watching a program aired in Spanish until I realized boobs suffer no language barrier.

While Grampa was dedicating his life to freeing boobs from bondage, Gramma was spending hers trying to make them illegal.  Everyone watching the battle of the boobs sympathized to some degree with both sides I believe.  After all, when two polar opposites dig in their heels, the tassles are bound to fly.  The situation was made all the more ironic when, due to medical reasons, Gramma ended up with more than one set of boobs.  For Grampa it must have been like visiting Ben and Jerry’s and being told you were allergic to Chunky Monkey.  Sweet revenge.  Gramma now had eight boobs and Grampa wasn’t touching any of them.

Now in another twist of neurosis, Gramma was concerned she would be called to meet her maker and the family would fight over her posessions.  Since editing a will on a daily basis is inconvenient, she reserved coveted items by placing post-it notes with names of their next owners on the them.  (I learned this trick real early and would scan the room when I first arrived tagging things like a male dog at a campground.) 

When my mother, grandmother, and I get together we tend to get a tad giggly.  Grampa had chastized us for such outrageous behavior more than once.  (It appears boob watching is less enjoyable if women are laughing behind your chair.)  One visit our giggly conversation turned to Gramma’s spare boobs and the matter of inheritance. 

Now for those of you who did not grow up during the Great Boob Wars, you may be surprised to find out that medical boobs come in many shapes, sizes, materials, and weights.  Good dress boobs can cost upwards of $1000!  (a pair, not each)

Since we were already giddy, and it was really irritating Grampa, Gramma helped the conversation along by retrieving her boob collection from its hiding place.  What ensued was akin to a booberware party.  We shook, jiggled, passed, and assessed the qualities of the various pairs while laughing until we cried.  Three generations of women making such statements as, “What if I want to borrow the dress boobs on the same night you do?  Should we draw bra straps to decide or do we each get one?  (Which reminds me of the bag of bra straps Gramma gave me one year because she was sure I could use them in a craft for my Cub Scouts.  NOT KIDDING)  In the end, I believe my mother won inheritance rights to the boob collection on the condition that I then get them after her.  I do have to wonder though if the post-it notes with mom’s name on them are visible through a pink sparkly evening gown.

While I have many many treasured memories of laughing with my mom and grandmother, I believe I may be the only one who can claim to have, as one of my favorite memories, the night we all fondled Gramma’s boobs.

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