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!
“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.