Mr. Sandy has gone camping this weekend.
Canoe camping. In Vermont.
It is 6:43 AM. (If this doesn't get posted until much later, well, that's how it goes in Sandyville. Hopefully it means the girls are dressed and where they're supposed to be, not that I fell asleep drooling on the keyboard here.) He just pulled out of the driveway with the truck loaded up ... tent, sleeping bag, clothing, flashlight, food? I guess they'll stop for food on the way. I'm always about the food. Canoe, paddles, life preserver. Rain gear, I trust, based on the forecast. As we say in our house, he is "pants over diaper butt, ready to GO!" (Um, yeah. I'll explain that later, and probably badly, as a lot depends on the intonation and having a laughing toddler with diaper butt around to think it's hilarious.)
Camping this weekend. May I just say I'd rather chew on tin foil?
More later. Time to get those girls up.
I had this conversation with a friend of mine last night (not about your husband, about camping). I hate camping. Hate it. I don't like bugs, I don't like being dirty, I don't like hiking, I don't really like the outdoors and dammit, I want to sleep on my own bed, not on some half-deflated air mattress with rocks in my back.
ReplyDeleteCamping is a hotel with no room service.
In the rain. Don't forget in the rain.
ReplyDeleteI'm definitely of two minds on camping, and the older I get, the less I feel like tolerating all the downsides.