I left work around 10a Friday morning to go home and help finish packing. We were going less than three hours from town to meet up with Mr. Adventure's friend and his girlfriend. It was Chumby's first time camping and I thought the dogs could use some outdoor time since they've been rather neglected since Chumb was born.
I hard boiled some eggs and made a lentil/barley/feta salad and cut up some veggies and had some hummus... my goal was to have food and not have to worry about cooking anything. Except hot dogs. And smores.
We got up there and it was beautiful. They scored a great camping spot. We took my car (because I didn't want to spend three times as much on gas to take the '93 Explorer) and we parked and set up camp while Chumbercules stretched his little toddler legs and the dogs went exploring. Within minutes, I had, like, 7 mosquito bites and The Girlfriend sprayed me down with bug spray.
Mr. Adventure's friends were fresh off Sasquatch (the music festival in the Washington Gorge) and they were already drunk (or still drunk?) when we got there. But whatever. I heard a thousand times from The Girlfriend about how 21 Pilots is her new favorite band and topless fishing is her new favorite thing. When I would ask Hamburglar to do something, she was parrot-parenting me. This girl is typically pretty nice. But she was getting pretty annoying pretty quick.
What took the cake was when she started talking about how she wants to have her boyfriend's babies (oh, dear God please no!) and she was asking me if she could get a scheduled C-section because she doesn't want her vagina all mangled or something. She then proceeded to pester Mr. Adventure, for the next 45+ minutes, about what my vagina felt like pre and post-baby. Mr. Adventure is a bit more of the old school type. He doesn't like to talk about those things. WE haven't even talked about it. I thought about whipping out my lady junk and saying, "You look at my vagina! It's the best damn one on the lot!" But maybe she has like a mangled corpse vagina already and doesn't want to make things worse? I don't know. What I do know is that my vagina is fucking miraculous. And, if she really wants to know, she can look that shit up on the internet. That's what the internet is for: finding information that may or may not be true and repeating it like it's the oldest known fact in the world. Duh.
Then, as the evening progressed and they continued drinking, they started arguing. All Mr. Adventure wanted to do was fish. While he was fishing, I laid Hamburglar down to sleep. And while we were doing that, the other couple continued arguing and the campfire died. All I wanted was a mother fucking smore. So, I went down to the lake and grabbed Mr. A and he restarted the campfire. By the time he finished, his friends were down by the lake, right by his fishing spot, continuing their argument. So, Mr. Adventure came back up, the baby woke up, I made them a smore to share then I made one for me and, on my first fucking bite, I broke my porcelain tooth. I look like a fucking crackhead. A smoking hot crackhead with an amazing vagina, but a crackhead, none-the-less.
We went to bed at some point and it was cold. We didn't bring warm enough sleep gear. Then it started raining. Mr. A hadn't weather-proofed his tent in several years so water was leaking in. And it was raining HARD. And the dogs were outside. I let them in and it was instantly warmer. None of us slept well because it was freezing fucking cold and wet. And the rain wasn't letting up.
If it hadn't been for the rain, I would have stuck it out. Everything else was what it was and, like I said, it was a beautiful spot. However, the prospect of spending the day in a 3-man tent with two dogs and a toddler was probably pretty close to what hell is like. Mr. Adventure said, "As soon as the rain lightens up a bit, we will pack up." Cue rain to come down harder.
The second it lightened up, I climbed out of the tent to pee and started packing up our stuff. I was ready to go. When we were finally packed up and getting the fuck out of there, my car tire got stuck in the mud and his friends had to help push us out. And there were no coffee stands anywhere. And we were all so very tired. I'm STILL tired.
At 27 weeks pregnant, I'm pretty sure I shouldn't be sleeping on the ground anyway. Plus I've gained like, three times as much belly in the past two weeks as I did in the whole 40 weeks of my first pregnancy.
This week, Sean Connery is the size of a rutabaga, cauliflower or a roast. You can look up your own damn recipe. This isn't a cooking blog!
Do you remember my favorite pregnancy website from the end of my last pregnancy? Well, I've rediscovered it and it is still hilarious. According to him, the baby is the size of a big turnip (think Turnip Head from Lost). But my favorite part has always been the tip at the end. "You should make exercise fun and social. Meet other pregnant women and go for exercises together."
Doesn't he know that talking to people without gilling them is a third trimester challenge? And, since I'm officially in the third trimester (tomorrow) I am now accepting bets on whether I can make it to my due date without stabbing someone!