Wingless Gnats and Summer Camp

My twelve-year old son just returned from summer camp and I am really jealous of his time away.

He went to a camp that had a week-long specialty in paintball. Yes, I said paintball. That cherished American summer feel good sport that gives you bruising welts all over your body and can potentially send you to the infirmary with slight brain damage after any given match. My son headed to the infirmary with a bloody skin tear on his neck, and yes, we received the call from the camp nurse informing us of my son’s injury.  Every parent loves a call from camp. We were told the only sadness from my son was that he missed out on shooting some folks as he was a sniper on a bluff before he was hit by friendly fire. Oh those good ‘ol camp days. Yes, that is the one whose only birthday wish was a brand new machete, preferably one illegal in most countries and could slice the wings off a gnat.  President or prison on that one I always say, he’s the flyer.

These days you can head to almost any type of camp. You can attend for paintball, horsemanship, extreme sports, (oh I can only hope for that one next year, maybe we can receive a call of a broken arm or two), crafts, music, dance, any type of sport, and of course church camp. I love the church camp, and was able to attend one last year.  Being saved by Jesus, followed by an all you can eat walking taco bar and s’mores is the absolute summer ticket, I highly recommend.

I really want to go to camp with simply myself; one designed especially for my own particular place in life. Perhaps it could be a camp for adults experiencing a variety of mid-life crisis. Men aged forty to fifty could check in their medication and head to experience a host of possibilities at their camp. A corvette camp where men with overbearing wives could have a week away to shop for the car they will never be allowed to own. Viagra commercials would not be allowed on the premises. Specialty camps would include, shootin’ stuff, blowin’ up stuff, and my favorite, stuffin’ stuff, a week long taxidermy adventure.  Evening meals could be prostate-health inducing pomegranate shakes and Porterhouse steaks served by twenty-something girls that work part-time at the Hooters.  

Women my age (won’t own the age, but I am in the same range as the men) could spend a week away messing up houses that someone else will clean and learning makeup techniques that wipe away the wrinkles of forty plus years of  long forgotten waistlines  and toilet scrubbing. Specialty camps for women could be, movies that my husband and kids won’t watch, Indy car driving to show off our mad school parking lot skills, and my personal choice, crafting with minor anti-depressants. Our meals would be something that would be easy on the digestive track (got the IBS ya know) and looks pretty, served by pool boys named Pablo. There would be many of them and all would be named Pablo.

Alas, I think I will have to be content with my camp at home this summer. It is fun here, I  still have the toilets and my poor husband does not yet have his sports car, but we will have good times, BBQs and a big backyard sans gnats.

My Doctor Is A Meany

 

I ran into my doctor again this past weekend as I was out and about. 

The truth is I often run into my doctor while I am out and about. Perhaps it may be that she is stalking me. I find it awfully suspicious that I run into her every time I am doing something unhealthy. For example, over the holidays I saw her in the grocery store as I was purchasing items for a small gathering….yes, it may have been a large amount of cocktail mixers in the cart, but it was going to be a large party…at least three or four of us getting together to celebrate some yule tides…whatever those may be.  Then about three weeks ago, right after I was assured that my blood pressure was too high in her office, she suspiciously walked into a local eatery as I was stuffing my face with a double-crust Italian special pizza. Then again, it happened last night. As I was working on releasing my stress (which I may add increases blood pressure) having a healthy wheat beer at the ski hill…who happens to show up? My doctor, that is who shows up, being annoying and partaking the healthy task of actually having skis with her at the ski hill. My skis? They are at home, still in the basement.

Other than the fact that she is stalking me, there is something else particularly annoying about this physician. She is very stingy about mediation delivery. Now, of course, if it is the normal, ethical, medically necessary-type of medication, she is all over that (Boring!) That is not the stash that I am seeking. (And no, it is not the illegal super- Vicodin I am referring to either you sicko-reader)  I am convinced that she has a stash of medicine; pills if you will, that would really enhance my life. I am talking about pills that would solve some serious, real-life concerns that are the heart of all of my issues. (This is, faithful-reader-that-already-knows-this-about-me, a very long listing of issues).

 So I am publicly demanding my pills!  In order to speed along this process, I have made a listing of all of the medication that I would like to pick up at the Walgreens this afternoon:

Fund-a-cide: A pill that would render all those asking me to volunteer for anything capable of seeing what they are really getting. I would take the pill and others would immediately NOT want to ask me to help with any type of concession stand, pizza sale, car wash, or baking event as they would know that I will be late, forget to turn in my money, or will spill coffee on poor folks standing at the concession stand window.

Kid-a-cide: Same pill as above, however formulated for any class trips, youth group events, and large gatherings of children under the age of 18. After the great pool-trauma of ’08, (See blog Field Trip Duty) this is medically necessary and should be covered by insurance.

Pro-work: Really speaks for itself, specifically taken on Monday mornings or Fridays at around 1:15 p.m. equal to twenty or thirty Red Bulls with some positive-attitude coating on it. This mediation may also be handy for lengthy performance reviews.

Tri-boy-moxin: A pill that would render me the cool mom that I truly am, deep down inside, to my three sons. Special side effects of this pill would include the inability to hum along to ‘80s pop tunes written by Boy George, Cyndi Lauper, and Hall&Oats. I would also be physically unable to kiss boys or try to hold their hands in public.

Wella-butt-in: Again speaks for itself, but really eases the gluteus maximus into last year's jeans. Comes in pill and grease form.

Mucus-jazz: This special concoction I can share with the entire family. Anyone who is sick, particularly sporting the stomach flu, will have all body fluids and mucus change color from the lovely browns, greens, and yellows, to soft lavender purple with silver glitter sparkles.  I will save you from further thought or reflection here…

I have other ideas, but I am trying to avoid being greedy, needy, and self-centered. (Although a pill for that as well would be nice!)

I will be showing up at Walgreens, however, I am certain it will be to pick-up my cholesterol medication and not what I really want….my doctor said it may help the heart or something boring like that….she is such a Meany!