Monthly Archives: August 2015

How green was my valley…

So far this summer my campouts have included thousand-dollar science technology, giggling voyeurs, and almost enough cake to make me diabetic satisfy my unending bloodlust for dacquoise…the usual quota of shenanigans. But, you ask, after a rousing night of sock-darning, spitting uncouthly, and losing my clothing, what could Saturday possibly have done to outperform Friday?

Which brings us to the FLIR incident, graciously guest-blogged by one of my more lucid campmates. Enjoy!

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“Well,” he said. “The canyon is clocking in at 117 degrees.”

We should back up. There was a beachfront camping trip, a bag of Stay-Pufts, and a FLIR infrared camera. And a wee bit of alcohol. (Note: We use “wee bit” in the traditional Irish way, as in, “Chicago has a wee bit of corruption in its governing organizations” or “Lake Erie is a wee bit polluted.”) Don’t panic – we had a handheld breathalyzer, and it’s not like we were going anywhere.

Does our normal Blogess like s’mores when sober? We’re unsure. But playing with fire is something every tipsy person wants to do, and since she has a little alcohol amnesia, the folks from the fire circle are filling in the blanks for her (and your) enjoyment. She deserves the aphasia: An early evening reading on the breathalyzer showed her at 0.13, and by the time everyone forgot how to work it, she had hit 0.21.

So there we were, innocently roasting marshmallows, patiently waiting as the chocolate slowly melted on the graham crackers. Someone suggested the idea of dunking the sugar bombs in whiskey first, and the teacher and event coordinator decided to be enablers, since they just happened to have some lying around. The engineer, having had several special “infused” gummy treats and feeling squinty eyed and slightly vague, muttered about how the whiskey would start dissolving the sugar and therefore making it hard to roast. He was stoned, but right. Our Blogess managed to drop one treat in the cuff of her crops, and when bending to grope for a towel, forgot she had another s’more on her lap, which this action ground messily into her bosom.

It had been a day of sandy beaches and hikes and hanging out with really good friends, and to no one’s surprise who reads this blog, when her clothing became sticky our heroine just took them off beside the fire ring. This was somewhere around the time the breathometer registered 0.18.

There was a Jedi robe involved. Eventually. Peripherally, as it were.

Meanwhile, the stoned engineer had pulled out the infrared camera and was taking images of the teacher, who was sitting on the other side of the campfire. He was making a valiant effort to prove his previous observation that the warmest spot on a human tends to be the eyeballs, but the ambient heat from the fire was messing with his readings.

So our heroine says, “I’m on your side of the fire, try me.”

She’s sprawled in her camp chair, left leg draped over the arm, as he aims the device and looks onto its tiny screen, with the heat readings represented by a rainbow of colors, still complaining about the campfire throwing things off and taking a few extra readings.

He’s completely oblivious, and quite obviously so, to the composition of his subject. His girlfriend, sitting next to him, is laughing uproariously, as he has no idea that he’s framing a stark naked girl in his lens. The aforementioned robe, still over her shoulders, serves only to frame her feminine figure in the firelight.

His reddened eyes fixed on the FLIR display, the engineer points his instrument directly at her chamber of secrets and observes confusedly how unusual it is that the valley there registers 117 degrees while the eyes are merely 115. In his defense, he was doing science!

Unsurprisingly, Sunday morning was rough all around.

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It’s f*cking in tents

Surprisingly, I’ve suffered no serious coital injuries this camping season – by this point last year I’d already fractured my foot and impaled my lady bits on a sharp stick in sex-related incidents (the decision to hike in a dress without underpants was, in hindsight, a regrettable mistake I blame entirely on sex brain).

This year, one fine Oregon weekend found me glamping with the folders. I’m a buncher, myself – i.e., I just grab a couple squares and crumple it up in a wad rather than carefully stacking the Charmin in a neat pile – and my camping gear involves a backpacking tent, sleeping bag and pad, and a real pillow if I’m feeling fancy. I knew I wasn’t among my own, though, when “I plan to pack a few sandwiches” was a completely foreign response to “what are you bringing for food.” When I realized that my fellow campers had constructed a full kitchen roughly the size of my apartment, complete with dish-washing station and color-coded labeled bins of kitchen supplies, to prep the elaborate evening repast, I felt the best thing for everyone was to pour four fingers of tequila and stay out of the way.

Six hours and nine cocktails later, I found myself in a vastly more glamorous tent than my own. Not only did I not have to slither awkwardly through multiple zip-doors, this palatial spread contained a queen-size air mattress and two quite sexy humans removing what remained of their clothing. As the last of his wardrobe came off, however, I noticed a quarter-sized hole in the gentleman’s left sock. My pickled, desperately-happy-to-feel-useful brain perked up: “Hey, I have a needle and thread! Even though I’m drunk, I can still darn a sock!”

Upon my triumphant return from the low-rent tent district with sewing accoutrements, I realized the lady had finished disrobing and was now reclining somewhat impatiently, leading to the QOTN: “I’m torn between darning a sock and eating pussy.” (Apparently I will never, ever learn that tent “walls” do nothing to prevent the entire rest of your camping party from hearing both your conversations and consummations, as this quote promptly made it to Facebook courtesy of one of my campmates.)

Sock successfully darned (no one is going to notice that it’s lime green thread keeping that white sock together, right?), it seemed prudent to brush some of the taste of decaying alcohol off my breath. I borrowed the lad’s toothbrush, because if I’m planning to put my face in your nethers in T minus 4 minutes, I think we’ve already agreed on our acceptable level of oral sharing. After I unzipped the door and hocked a mouthful of pasty spit discreetly outside to the right, he advised: “Next time try not to spit in the vestibule.” Since that sentence didn’t make one lick of sense to my drunk, erotically-focused neurons, I ignored it completely. To his consternation, I spat again a moment later in exactly the same place. In the morning I learned that really fancy tents have not only a proper stand-up door, but an area between that and the rain fly with a tarped floor (this “vestibule” of which he had been speaking). Oops.

After the evening’s festivities concluded, I eventually crawled back to my own tent-slum. (Despite the luxury a queen blow-up lends to sexy times, I recognized that inevitably this would deflate and result in a central trough of enforced cuddle-smothering.) Not being a morning person, when my excretory senses mumbled me awake a few hours later, I buried my head to muffle what I believed were the sonorous orgasms of my neighbors and buy a little more time in dreamland.

When I couldn’t repress the urge to pee any longer, I careened headfirst out of said tent and, to my surprise, found said neighbors placidly fireside sipping cappuccinos. Apparently what I believed to be the lovely lady’s moans of delight was in fact a nearby dog’s falsetto yapping, which had woken everyone else and subsequently annoyed them for nearly an hour. (The gentleman’s chest puffed noticeably as he thanked me for my mistakenly flattering assumption of his longevity and skill, however.)

15 hours into this camping trip, my head buzzed and I hadn’t yet seen the beach. Fortunately, the folders had whipped up something edible to go with their espresso and it was promptly deposited, with a mug of regular-old coffee, into my lap. (Somewhere around this time it occurred to me that although I was wearing the sweatshirt I had on the previous day, the two layers underneath had disappeared completely: the customary beginning of my favorite traditional morning scavenger hunt.)

I was rebuilding my strength before the sun cleared the treetops, rallying for adventures to come. After all, we still had three bottles of rum, an infrared camera, and a hell of a lot of weed-infused gummy candies.

Next week! One of my camp-mates fills Saturday’s blanks for me in an extraordinary guest blog, complete with thermal imaging.