I am posting this story out of spite.

I was on a camping trip this weekend. When the invitation came it specifically said “What Happens in the Mountains STAYS in the Mountains” (a very anti-blogger sentiment… I have filed a complaint with The Union) and when I arrived our hosts specifically asked me (a blogger) not to blog about the weekend.

Ahem. Which brings me to this blog post. About the weekend.

I probably wouldn’t have blogged about the trip- I didn’t blog about the last trip I took up to this- let’s call them the Schmonys- family camping area. But being asked not to blog sort of brought out the rebel in me, and I found myself invoking the first amendment to the Constitution- in between Slim Jims. Plus, I don’t think the Schmonys read my blog- most people I know IRL* don’t- apparently my existence as a boring, frumpy housewife convinces people I’d have a boring, frumpy blog.

So now I’m going to talk about taking a dump in the woods and making out with lesbians.**

I’m risking not being invited to the Schmony Annual Camping Trip again with my blogging…but dude, someone’s got to protect the Constitution. You’re welcome, America (cue Star Spangled banner).

I love camping. Have loved it since I was a kid. We have never been able to join the Schmonys when they’ve invited us for the kid-free grown-up camppalooza, because the trip is always on the opening weekend of my daughter’s high school play***…but this time, the opening night was changed so it didn’t conflict with the local football big-rivalry game. (God forbid a play was happening at a high school in the same night as a far-more-educational football game.) So, probably to the horror of the Schmonys and their other guests, BOB and I threw a steak and a camping coffee pot in the pickup truck and went up.

Had we checked the weather? To see if it was going to be below freezing that night? No.

Do we own wintery-warmish sleeping bags? No.

Did I pack a bottle of Captain Morgan Private Label we had leftover (for some reason) from the Halloween party instead of going out and buying my staple, SAFE Single Barrel Jack Daniels? Yes.

Did BOB pack the tent with the broken zipper so the door doesn’t close? Hellz Yes.

I will say one heartfelt (being snarky is exhausting, people) thing: being around a campfire on a cold night with a bunch of friends, without the kids, while eating campfire-cooked steak and potatoes? Is amazing. Truly.

I shall say nothing of the other people on the trip, so as not to compromise their identities- even though they have TENT HEATERS and therefore SUCK DICK.

Tent heaters? Exist? I did not know that. I have never been camping in cold weather. I packed a large comforter to throw over the air mattress and a down comforter for over top of us, and I thought we’d be fine. Notsomuch.

We went to bed at like midnight. Although it seemed chilly, we were warm from the Captain Morgan (which, half its contents later, landed my husband with the nickname “Captain Schmorgan” and made him say the word “Lesbians”**** about 1467 times) and I slept soundly for about three hours.

Then I woke up. Freezing (mayhaps because we tried to duct-tape our tent door closed from the inside but somehow a breeze was still getting in). I told BOB I was going to go pee. Then I saw the dying campfire, and I got into Girl Scout Mode. It must be fixed, I thought. Or we will all die.

I’ve seen Bear Grylls and the other dude who doesn’t sleep at the Hilton in-between segments so I know that fire is important when you are freezing. Fat Lazy Bitch vs. Wild? ON.

So I saved the lives of 10 innocent people by keeping the fire going for the next four hours until everyone else woke up. I mean, it’s no big deal. I took one for the team. Sacrificed sleep for their comfort (though apparently the rest of them were quite comfy and warm in their mummy sleeping bags and zippered-tent heaters. Cocksuckers.).

But about halfway into my 4-hours-with-nature experience, I had a run-in with my own nature. The stupid Captain Morgerfucker (combined perhaps with freezing temps and a slightly-undercooked steak) had made me sick, something my good friend Jack Daniels never does to me. I wasn’t going to puke, thank God, but I needed to do a little woodsy squat, so I walked far, far away into the woods (one couple had a dog with them and I have already written a blog post about a dog eating people shit and did NOT want to write another one) and laid a little campfire log of my own.

Then I heard something. Rustling. While squatting with my naked, frozen ass in the wind I heard something taking footsteps. Help me Baby Jesus. Help me Blair Witch.

Apparently a bear does shit in the woods. Right around the same time as me.

I ran back to the open-door tent and woke up BOB. I told him we needed to go to the nearby Marriott sleep in the truck because something was out there trying to kill me while I shat. The truck? Turned out to be just as freezing as the tent, which we Bob then dragged over to the campfire (yeah, the photo above isn’t ours but it may as fucking well have been). Then BOB hurled. Captain Morganfucker doesn’t like him, either, but it did let him pass out, leaving me to continue trying to keep the fire alive and fend off Yeti stalkers alone. Only I couldn’t find any firewood- we’d used the pile closest to the campfire and it was too dark to look for any. (Had we brought a flashlight? Why no, actually.)

I thought about burning our unzippered tent, but Bob was snoring in it, and I thought explaining my dead husband shrink-wrapped in some kind of melted, barbecued Coleman Wrap to the police or rangers or whatever the fuck they have in the mountains would be awkward.

Now, I’m not saying that the fact that we had an zipperless tent, no warm sleeping bags, no flashlights, no tent heater and the wrong booze was my husband’s fault for dropping out of Boy Scouts. At. All.

Plus, nothing tastes as good as a cup of camping coffee (and victory) with a side of bacon after a long night in the frozen wilderness. I’m proud I had the chance to save my friends’ lives.

But I’m even prouder that I made it home alive to blog about it.

*In Real Life (dorky blog vocab alert!)

**if anything, the blog is whoring and dumpy, not boring and frumpy.

***coincidence, or conspiracy? You be the judge.

**** Just because I kissed a girl for the first time at my Halloween party does not make me a lesbian, much to the apparent disappointment of my husband. (Also? She was half my age. Go me. And yeah, since you and Katy Perry asked, I did sorta like it.)