Eating Out the Dream
For New Year’s Eve I disappeared into the woods with my boyfriend; when I emerged I learned that soon I can be invisible at parties. We hiked up a mountain we aren’t supposed to camp on, with bags the weight of bears on our backs, and after trekking across a sketchy rock garden wound our way into a cozy pit surrounded by cyclopean rocks. It was a real mythological tour.
We arrived during daylight so we could see to collect wood for the fire and set up our new bad-ass orange tent. Usually we don’t use a tent but just sleep in bags out in the cool open night. When I say we, I mean I follow Mark’s lead. I had been camping only once, when I was 23, before I met Mark, when I was 25. At 28, I’m still an outdoors rookie. What was I going to do—bitch and cry until pampered? No, I proved myself a tough girl with deep affection for violatory bugs and for squatting to pee in the grass. I must also mention that every time we go camping I have started my period the day or two before, which makes for a situation less than ideal. However, I’ve decided to make the most of it and try to get into the Guinness Book of World Records for dropping the most tampons in the woods. Support me with cheers and cotton party hats.
New Year’s Eve. We at first weren’t going to bring alcohol since we had so much to carry. But I wanted to bring champagne for the NYE celebration. Fortunately we found little 10 oz. bottles at the liquor store—neither of us like the stuff anyway. Then we decided to bring a 12-pack of PBR and two left over tall-can Scotch ales from the fridge. After the sweaty hike up the mountain, cracking open a beer is the best thing. And that’s what we did, and we carried on with that cracking.
When it got dark and Mark had revved the fire back to blazing, we roasted hotdogs and finished the PBR. Around 9pm we became desperately sleepy. What the fuck? We set the cell phone alarm (I know—cell phone in the woods!) for 11:45 pm so we could catch the year’s turn and then fell asleep. When the alarm went off we promptly turned it off and slept until 8:30am, like a couple of poppy-inflicted Oz-goers. All night a witch-like screech off in the distance ripped into the silence. It sounded far away.
Upon waking we decided to make oatmeal. Mark got another stellar fire going, set a pot on a rock in the flames, and boiled some water. We ate maple and brown sugar oatmeal and drank hot chocolate. An hour later we grew sleepy, and like a couple of poppy-inflicted Oz-goers were drawn back to the tent and slept for another two hours. What the fuck? Sleeping was good, but was there something sedative in the fire’s smoke? Only the monkeys know.
When we woke again, around 2pm, my head was pounding. You may have noticed above that we drank hot chocolate with our oatmeal. Not at all like coffee. I don’t drink a lot of coffee, but I do drink coffee every day. My body and brain know this. Every time I leaned over, my head throbbed harder. It weighed 300 lbs., I’m sure of it. There was possibility of two people coming to join us the second night, and they were my only hope: bring caffeine in any form I don’t care, I pleaded. Neither of the potentials made it, and my head ached until I woke up the next morning, despite champagne, Scotch ale, Alleve, and Tylenol. Damnable slinking addiction. Mind over matter, Beast.
Anyway, when we woke this second time, Mark got another stellar fire going and cooked a can of chili on the rock. While it was cooking we drank our Scotch ales, and afterward we popped open our tiny bottles of champagne and toasted to the new year. The chili hit the spot, despite every vessel in my head expanding to the size of angry snakes. We played rummy on top of a rock. I don’t know how the hours passed. There was a fire and the still woody air. Later we cooked beef stew on the rock. As per pattern, we grew sleepy early.
It was chillier the second night. We both had zero-degree bags inside our tent, mine which Mark had very recently procured for me. This would do just fine for a normal person, but I am a reptile. I do not retain heat. I have no circulation in my toes. I fell asleep and woke intermittently, shivering. Finally I put on more clothes then mummied myself back into the bag, after which I realized I had to pee. I said Fuck it and went back to sleep. Then I began having the have-to-pee dream. Here goes. It gets racy…
Mark and I were sleeping in an orange tent. There was a rustling about outside the tent. Something was trying to get in. It ripped a hole in the side of the tent, making a window. It was a black dog with small white patches, curly hair, floppy ears, harmless. We shoo-ed it away. Then our tent became a little car, a Chevette or something, and we were driving. I had to pee. We found some freezer pops on the side of the road. These freezer pops had been all over the papers. Someone had stolen them from Big Lots. We drove until we found Big Lots. I think we wanted more freezer pops, or at least legitimate freezer pops. We went in. I had to pee, so I waited in the vestibule area. The store was about to close. Three workers came out and lit up cigarettes in the vestibule. One of them had short curly blonde hair, an effeminate boy wearing a long-sleeved black shirt and cut-off denim shorts, cuffed. The right leg was rolled up higher than the right. I could see he did it to show off a black swirling tattoo on that leg. Soon Mark came out and we got in the car. I had to pee. We drove and parked in front of a tall nasty hotel. Nasty. You could tell from the outside. Apparently some people lived there for weeks or months at a time. Where we were parked we could see right into three of the windows. There were girls showering in each of them. The one on the right wore a brunette bob cut, black thick-rimmed glasses, and a black lacy thong, the front of which was cut out in a triangle around her pubic hair, while she showered. The middle girl was nothing memorable except for her bare vagina thrusting up and down in the window. The girl on the left, unlike the other two, seemed uncomfortable being seen but stood there and washed anyway. We got another close-up of the middle girl and her thrusting pelvis in the window lit yellow. Mark turned to me and said, "I feel like I’m eating her out, she’s so close." We laughed. The girl on the left said sternly to us, "This isn’t going to work. [pause] We know you’ve been sitting here. You can’t." Her voice was ominous. We drove away before demons came. I had to pee. A cop drove past us. Mark put on his seat belt. I had to pee. We drove off onto a country road, away from the cop. I had to pee.
I woke up. Mark was awake, said he’d heard the screech again, but it was much closer, very close in fact. We lay there and listened. I had to pee. It was very close. We were going to be another Blair Witch project. Finally it moved farther away. Probably an owl, Mark guessed: there were no footsteps and it moved quickly. I concurred. I had to concur to make certain in my head that there was no witch, no saliva-drip-toothed raccoon, or no serial killer standing outside the tent, whether there was or not. I had to get out there and free my bladder. And so I did.
In the morning we boiled water on the rock for some oatmeal and hot chocolate, packed up our stuff, and hiked down the mountain. As we were walking over the final bridge out of the woods, a woman was hiking in. A cunt rather. Generally I don’t use this term to refer to people, but this woman was Cunt Manifest. I could tell just by looking. She said to us, "Oh, are you allowed to camp up here, or are you just training?" Fuck off, lady. You know the answer, and you know you know the answer. Mind your own business and enjoy your day. We will. A friend was in the parking lot waiting to pick us up. He drove us straight to coffee zen.
We arrived during daylight so we could see to collect wood for the fire and set up our new bad-ass orange tent. Usually we don’t use a tent but just sleep in bags out in the cool open night. When I say we, I mean I follow Mark’s lead. I had been camping only once, when I was 23, before I met Mark, when I was 25. At 28, I’m still an outdoors rookie. What was I going to do—bitch and cry until pampered? No, I proved myself a tough girl with deep affection for violatory bugs and for squatting to pee in the grass. I must also mention that every time we go camping I have started my period the day or two before, which makes for a situation less than ideal. However, I’ve decided to make the most of it and try to get into the Guinness Book of World Records for dropping the most tampons in the woods. Support me with cheers and cotton party hats.
New Year’s Eve. We at first weren’t going to bring alcohol since we had so much to carry. But I wanted to bring champagne for the NYE celebration. Fortunately we found little 10 oz. bottles at the liquor store—neither of us like the stuff anyway. Then we decided to bring a 12-pack of PBR and two left over tall-can Scotch ales from the fridge. After the sweaty hike up the mountain, cracking open a beer is the best thing. And that’s what we did, and we carried on with that cracking.
When it got dark and Mark had revved the fire back to blazing, we roasted hotdogs and finished the PBR. Around 9pm we became desperately sleepy. What the fuck? We set the cell phone alarm (I know—cell phone in the woods!) for 11:45 pm so we could catch the year’s turn and then fell asleep. When the alarm went off we promptly turned it off and slept until 8:30am, like a couple of poppy-inflicted Oz-goers. All night a witch-like screech off in the distance ripped into the silence. It sounded far away.
Upon waking we decided to make oatmeal. Mark got another stellar fire going, set a pot on a rock in the flames, and boiled some water. We ate maple and brown sugar oatmeal and drank hot chocolate. An hour later we grew sleepy, and like a couple of poppy-inflicted Oz-goers were drawn back to the tent and slept for another two hours. What the fuck? Sleeping was good, but was there something sedative in the fire’s smoke? Only the monkeys know.
When we woke again, around 2pm, my head was pounding. You may have noticed above that we drank hot chocolate with our oatmeal. Not at all like coffee. I don’t drink a lot of coffee, but I do drink coffee every day. My body and brain know this. Every time I leaned over, my head throbbed harder. It weighed 300 lbs., I’m sure of it. There was possibility of two people coming to join us the second night, and they were my only hope: bring caffeine in any form I don’t care, I pleaded. Neither of the potentials made it, and my head ached until I woke up the next morning, despite champagne, Scotch ale, Alleve, and Tylenol. Damnable slinking addiction. Mind over matter, Beast.
Anyway, when we woke this second time, Mark got another stellar fire going and cooked a can of chili on the rock. While it was cooking we drank our Scotch ales, and afterward we popped open our tiny bottles of champagne and toasted to the new year. The chili hit the spot, despite every vessel in my head expanding to the size of angry snakes. We played rummy on top of a rock. I don’t know how the hours passed. There was a fire and the still woody air. Later we cooked beef stew on the rock. As per pattern, we grew sleepy early.
It was chillier the second night. We both had zero-degree bags inside our tent, mine which Mark had very recently procured for me. This would do just fine for a normal person, but I am a reptile. I do not retain heat. I have no circulation in my toes. I fell asleep and woke intermittently, shivering. Finally I put on more clothes then mummied myself back into the bag, after which I realized I had to pee. I said Fuck it and went back to sleep. Then I began having the have-to-pee dream. Here goes. It gets racy…
Mark and I were sleeping in an orange tent. There was a rustling about outside the tent. Something was trying to get in. It ripped a hole in the side of the tent, making a window. It was a black dog with small white patches, curly hair, floppy ears, harmless. We shoo-ed it away. Then our tent became a little car, a Chevette or something, and we were driving. I had to pee. We found some freezer pops on the side of the road. These freezer pops had been all over the papers. Someone had stolen them from Big Lots. We drove until we found Big Lots. I think we wanted more freezer pops, or at least legitimate freezer pops. We went in. I had to pee, so I waited in the vestibule area. The store was about to close. Three workers came out and lit up cigarettes in the vestibule. One of them had short curly blonde hair, an effeminate boy wearing a long-sleeved black shirt and cut-off denim shorts, cuffed. The right leg was rolled up higher than the right. I could see he did it to show off a black swirling tattoo on that leg. Soon Mark came out and we got in the car. I had to pee. We drove and parked in front of a tall nasty hotel. Nasty. You could tell from the outside. Apparently some people lived there for weeks or months at a time. Where we were parked we could see right into three of the windows. There were girls showering in each of them. The one on the right wore a brunette bob cut, black thick-rimmed glasses, and a black lacy thong, the front of which was cut out in a triangle around her pubic hair, while she showered. The middle girl was nothing memorable except for her bare vagina thrusting up and down in the window. The girl on the left, unlike the other two, seemed uncomfortable being seen but stood there and washed anyway. We got another close-up of the middle girl and her thrusting pelvis in the window lit yellow. Mark turned to me and said, "I feel like I’m eating her out, she’s so close." We laughed. The girl on the left said sternly to us, "This isn’t going to work. [pause] We know you’ve been sitting here. You can’t." Her voice was ominous. We drove away before demons came. I had to pee. A cop drove past us. Mark put on his seat belt. I had to pee. We drove off onto a country road, away from the cop. I had to pee.
I woke up. Mark was awake, said he’d heard the screech again, but it was much closer, very close in fact. We lay there and listened. I had to pee. It was very close. We were going to be another Blair Witch project. Finally it moved farther away. Probably an owl, Mark guessed: there were no footsteps and it moved quickly. I concurred. I had to concur to make certain in my head that there was no witch, no saliva-drip-toothed raccoon, or no serial killer standing outside the tent, whether there was or not. I had to get out there and free my bladder. And so I did.
In the morning we boiled water on the rock for some oatmeal and hot chocolate, packed up our stuff, and hiked down the mountain. As we were walking over the final bridge out of the woods, a woman was hiking in. A cunt rather. Generally I don’t use this term to refer to people, but this woman was Cunt Manifest. I could tell just by looking. She said to us, "Oh, are you allowed to camp up here, or are you just training?" Fuck off, lady. You know the answer, and you know you know the answer. Mind your own business and enjoy your day. We will. A friend was in the parking lot waiting to pick us up. He drove us straight to coffee zen.
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