You know when you were a teen or a twenteen and you did things you didn't want to do just to show a boy you liked him? Yeah, well I still do that.
Things I have done in the past 10 years because I love Jan:
1. Gone snowshoeing in -35 degree weather
2. Got on a plane by myself for the first time to fly over the Atlantic to see him
3. Befriended the skeevy-but-nice pirate who lives in the halfway house across the street
4. Went on a road trip heavily centred around American ballparks
5. Flown to Winnipeg (Winterpeg) in March and watched movies on a screen made of snow (also -35 degrees -- he's Norwegian, so there's lots of winter torture going on in the name of l'amour.)
6. Various things with a certain orifice that I'd rather not mention or recall.
Like a trip to bootcamp for a troubled teen, these events -- and countless others -- have made me reach out of my comfort zone and ultimately enriched my whole life experience. (Except perhaps anything to do with anuses, which just bunged me up for a week causing me to close that door forever.) In hindsight. But heading into it, I am fearful. Panicked. Nervous as a cat about to take a bath. Can't I just lick my own asshole and be done with it? (I've never ever licked my own asshole, for the record.) No, I must go out of my way to show him that I love him. With grand gestures.
Case in point: I'm going camping tomorrow. With two kids under 4. Clearly I need my head examined.
I booked the trip after my homey, Lady Z, showed me how easy it is to book campsites online. I LOVE researching, planning and booking things online, so this seemed like fun. Jan was away in Edmonton when I did it (a trip I encouraged him to take even though I didn't really want him to go) and he came back to my announcement: "I booked us a camping trip!"
The Jan-Dogger is part canine, part Norwegian, part drunken Englishman, and therefore loves all to do with the outdoors. He frequently sleeps on our lawn in the summer (by choice not exile) and wakes up happier than a pig in shit. He's a big dog too (6 ft and 185 lbs) so he really needs to be run around outdoors. Fresh air is his drug of choice. Telling him we're going camping is akin to announcing I'm about to give him a bj. Better even.
I, on the other hand, am part feline. I want people to leave me alone to do my own thing indoors. Then I will come up to you when I need to curl up and get some affection. I decide. I also hate being wet (now, now, tsk) and only like to go outdoors to catch that elusive mouse (or Marc Jacobs bag), socialize with other cats and then come back to my warm and dry house to eat and sleep. I am also lazy.
Camping is work. Going anywhere with kids is work. Put the two together and---holy fucknuts what have I signed up for?
Look at this forecast! Oh it's not TERRIBLE, but any Canuck worth her bacon knows that sunshine/rain cloud combo means THERE WILL BE BUGS! Ain't no milkshake in the world gonna save you from that despair.
Anyways, it's not even glamping. There's no place to plug in my straight iron, so I will be relegated to Pucci headscarves and big sunglasses. (Oh you dig my Dorothy Parker/Louise Brooks hairdo, but it's work people! I don't just wake up like that!)
I am the family photog (Jan will take 500 pictures of inanimate objects and nature, but not me with my kids unless asked), so I'll be sure to post loads of cute kiddo pics when I return. But don't expect to see my Jackie O in Martha's Vineyard look, because frankly I doubt I'll be able to pull it off in the wild.
Back on Monday. Keep smiling! Here's a 2-minute vid of Loogoo eating to keep you going. (Awesome shirt provided by Auntie Katie. Forgive the Cloverfield cam. And try to ignore my psychotic babbling play-by-play. In fact it's best if you watch this on MUTE. The things I do for love...)