Camping 101 Wednesday, July 30, 2008

(Photo from 'Katie@!' via Flickr)

In all my 23 years of life, ‘camping’ has never been a word in my vocabulary.  And I never really understood why people were so into it—I mean, I liked being outdoors as much as the next person, but there is a big difference between being outside and sleeping outside.  
But something in the great outdoors was calling me and for some reason I just couldn’t let this pass me by.  Okay, let’s be honest—I just didn’t have anything better to do.
I wasn’t quite sure why, but I was overly excited about the weekend in front of me.  New adventures, the great outdoors and good friends—what could be better? 
I made a trip to Wal-mart for all the necessities and after consulting with a few veteran campers, packed my bags.    
But when I woke up the next morning, panic set in.  What was I thinking?  I couldn’t go camping!  There were so many things I hadn’t thought of until now and were taking over my mind.  Who was I kidding?—this was a bad idea.  
If you know me at all, you know I am more than a little bit girly.  Sure, I don’t mind getting dirty, but I do recognize the value of running water and a flushing toilet.  I thought back to my family and friends’ reactions the day before when I had announced to the world that yes, this girl was going camping.  Their stunned responses ran circles through my mind. 
“You?!  Camping?!  I never thought I would hear those two things in the same sentence!” and, “You know there are bugs out there, right?” were among the two that stuck out the most. 
But there were some who had faith in my ability to survive in the wild.  And, according to some professional campers, I wasn’t really camping since we were going to be sleeping in an RV. 
After a quick pep talk and watching two coolers full of alcoholic beverages being loaded into the RV, I was back on track and ready to hit the road. 
The RV we were borrowing (not hijacking as some may claim) for our trip actually belonged to the organization I worked for.  But it wasn’t your typical RV—not only was it bright blue and 30 feet long, it was covered with giant pictures, making it stick out like a sore thumb.  Needless to say the ride up was marked by honking horns, head turning stares and the occasional dirty look. 
I was quite fond of the camp site we had selected partly because it was right on the lake, but mostly because I saw a brick building 50 yards away with what looked like bathrooms.   
I couldn’t wait to get out and explore, but as it tends to, nature called and I headed towards the brick building in the distance to what I thought held the gift of the weekend—flushing toilets and running water.
I sat down and suddenly realized I had made a big mistake.  I felt a cool breeze (not the kind that feels good, I might add) shoot a draft between my legs.  What the hell was that?!  I jumped up and looked down to make sure no one was down there blowing up my skirt.
I was later informed that I was using something called a latrine.  If you aren’t familiar with a latrine, it’s esentially a hole in the ground with a raised seat.  People may try to trick you into thinking it is a real bathroom, but don’t be fooled—it is nothing more than a stationary port-a-john with frequent wind gusts. 
I spent the rest of the weekend peeing in the bushes as much as possible, which I was surprisingly okay with.  In fact, I thought it was pretty cool. 
The weekend primarily consisted of eating, drinking and fishing, which I was perfectly fine with.  We lounged around, took in all the amenities of Mother Nature, and for the first time in a long time I had this strange but comforting sense of tranquility—it must have been something in the air. 
It didn’t bother me that I hadn’t showered in two days (apparently swimming counts as showering when you are camping) and I didn’t even realize I was covered in dirt.  It was awesome.
We cooked over the fire, gazed at the stars and I even watched a fish being gutted and still ate him (we named him Pete if you were wondering).  And even though I got a million bug bites and thought I had West Nile for a week, it was the best weekend I have had in a long time.
My friends, who also experienced my first camping trip, had their doubts about me at first but by the end of the weekend I was told I was “the right guy away from a six-day backpacking trip through Yellowstone.” 
I’m not so sure I would go that far, but I am not ruling it out quite yet.  I do think my camping trips will progress in phases, however.  Phase one (which I have already conquered) consisted of RV or cabin camping; phase two, tent camping; and phase three, sleeping outside with no amenities beyond what you found in the great outdoors.
I have to say, I definitely surprised myself.  Who knows—maybe I’m more outdoorsy than I thought.

All dogs go to Heaven: A Tribute to Tucson Monday, July 21, 2008

It all started one faithful spring day in 1994 as my mom and I were returning home from a trip to San Diego to visit my older brother at college.
We de-boarded our plane and made our way to baggage claim to meet my Godparents who were picking us up.  We saw Wes first—and for some reason he was holding a video camera and had a shit-eating grin on his face.  It seemed strange, but being eight years old, I hammed it up and rolled with it. 
A few minutes later, we saw Stephanie.  She was holding a little black puppy in her arms wearing a big red bow. 
It was love at first sight.  I named him Tucson, a name I came across in an airline magazine I had been flipping through on our flight home that featured, you guessed it, Tucson, AZ.  Ah, the creativity of an eight-year-old. 
Our first night was a little rough.  Thank God my Dad was out of town—we needed a night to prepare him for what he was about to come home to.  It was then and there we realized we didn’t have an ordinary dog on our hands.
The first few years—okay let’s be honest—the first eight years were a little rough with Tucson.  He spent the greater part of this day chewing on the siding of our house, tearing the stuffing out of our lawn chair cushions (after giving them a good hump, of course) and chasing his tail.  Some experts say a dog chasing its tail is a sign of stupidity, but I think Tucson was the exception—this dog was too smart for his own good.
In his younger years, he loved running the loop of our backyard, working up enough momentum to run up the side of our 6 foot fence to peek his head over.  He even got his foot stuck in between the boards once, leaving him dangling by one of his back legs 5 feet off the ground after trying to chase down a bird. 
Even though he tended to get himself into a little mischief once in a while, he was a good dog at heart.  Every day after school, I would find him waiting for me at our front window—sometimes even standing on top of the dining room table to catch a better view of my school bus. 
I taught him tricks like roll over, shake and play dead, and we even took him on vacation with us to Disney World.  He didn’t actually get to ride the rides with us, but he did ride on the tram from the parking lot. 
Yes, Tucson was a pretty special dog.  He loved his family more than anything (except maybe table scraps) and was the greatest watch dog around.  The UPS man was so scared of him he would throw packages on the porch without ringing the doorbell, seeing it more appropriate to run for his life.  And he frightened the Orkin man so badly once he never came back. 
And like any other dog, Tucson loved his treats.  Even if he wasn’t hungry, he would gladly accept them, hiding them for later throughout the house.  He especially liked treats he wasn’t supposed to have, in particular, chocolate.      
Once, we had a bag of at least six Cadbury Cream Eggs sitting on our kitchen island, and came home to just the bag on the floor.  Positive he had ingested them all and was within minutes of puking all over the carpet, we watched him closely.  But surprisingly, he was perfectly fine. 
Two days later I sat down on the couch.  Reaching in between the cushions I found a half melted Cadbury Egg.  Needless to say we found a few more scattered throughout the house over the next few days, discovering the majority of his secret hiding spots. 
Tucson always had a lot of energy, so it was easy to tell when he wasn’t feeling his best.  A few years ago, our vet suggested an ultrasound when his labs reported his liver function was abnormal.  Being home for the summer on a break from school, I had the pleasure of taking him. 
As I walked into the emergency vet clinic, also a specialty clinic for things like this, I couldn’t help but look around at all the sick dogs.  What was I going to do when Tucson was like this?  In the midst of my thought, we were called into the room.
After the procedure, the doctor came in to speak with me.  With Tucson at my feet, he showed me the pictures they had taken along with the ultrasound.  The doctor explained to me that the right lobe of his liver was significantly larger than his left, which explained his poor labs, and was something that he could not diagnose without exploratory surgery. 
Surgery of course, would require general anesthesia, which with his liver function, was a huge risk.  As he continued to talk, my head began to spin.  I was no longer listening to the words the doctor was saying.  The only thing I could think about was how I could not imagine my life without the heartbeat that was at my feet. 
As we were waiting at the counter to pay, I began to cry.  Tucson could always tell when I was upset.  Whether I was sad about not getting my way as a child, or upset about a boy as a teenager, Tucson was always there.  I felt him nudge my hand, letting me know he was there.  Realizing I had caused somewhat of a scene, I reached down to pet him.  But before I could get there, Tucson took a huge dump on the waiting room floor. 

(Photo from ‘johannal’ via Flickr)

My sadness instantly turned to laughter and I bent down to thank him for saving me once again from my tears.  No matter what, he always knew just what to do to make everything okay. 
Tucson stuck it out for a few more years after what seemed like a terminal diagnosis.  We almost lost him last summer before I moved away for my first real job, something I saw quite symbolic.
He hung on until this past June, just shy of his 16th birthday.   He contracted a bad infection, which coupled with his bad arthritis, got the best of him.  Tucson went peacefully in his sleep—something we all thank him for—cuddled up on his favorite brown blanket.
I know Tucson lived a good life.  He taught us more lessons than we could ever have imagined, making us better children, parents, friends and people.  He’s in a place now without sickness and pain, waiting until we’re all ready to go Home for good. 
I’m sure he is up there somewhere chasing birds and eating Cadbury Eggs—but I have to say, I sure do miss him.

Eye wasn’t ready Wednesday, July 9, 2008

It all started with a scratchy eye. 
I attributed the re-occurring issue to the dry climate and being on the computer all day, but still thought maybe I should get it checked out.  Besides, I had met my health insurance deductible for the year (yes, I know what that means now) and realized that in all my 23 years of life, I had never actually been to the eye doctor.    
I expected scheduling a standard eye exam to be similar to that of a yearly sports physical or bi-annual teeth cleaning.  Nothing is available more than two months in advance unless you are having a problem or some kind of emergency—and I was definitely not having either.

(Photo from 'moirabot' via Flickr)

That said I was shocked when the receptionist informed me that she had scheduled me for the following morning.  I instantly felt a wave of panic gush through my bloodstream like a warm shot of Tequila.  Tomorrow?! 
What do they do at an eye exam anyway?  Whatever it is, it can’t be pleasant.  Have you seen those terrible sunglasses people walk out of there wearing? 
I spent the remainder of the afternoon questioning my co-workers and researching the events of an eye exam.  The majority of them eased my worries.  However, I was a bit alarmed when one of my co-workers poked his head over my cubicle and whispered “beware of the puff.” 
When I arrived at my appointment the next morning, a little old lady named Marcel called my name and brought me into a room with a lot of unfamiliar looking machines and giant posters of eye balls covering the walls.  She asked me to sit down in front of the largest, scariest machine of them all and told me to look at the red light. 
I hesitantly obeyed, and seeing a bright flash immediately jumped backwards into my seat.  “Is something wrong?” Marcel asked.  I explained my optical virginity and she kindly offered to hold my hand during the remainder of the retinal scan.  I told her I thought I could handle it.
We then ventured to one of the smaller, less intimidating machines.  Thinking the worst was behind me, I walked into this one with ease.  Marcel told me to focus on the hot air balloon in the distance and the rest would just happen. 
I focused on the hot air balloon with my left eye and heard a quiet beep.  Seconds later, I felt a blast of air penetrate my eyeball.  What the heck was that? 
Obviously shaken, Marcel comforted me.  “Some people call that one ‘the puff’,” she said with a smile.  That explained a lot. 
As I focused on the balloon once again, this time with my right eye, I squinted, in fear of ‘the puff’.  It finally beeped and, as expected, forced a blast of air into my eye.  “Whoops, looks like that one didn’t turn out,” Marcel said. 
Of course it didn’t.
This time, it was serious.  I opened my eye as wide as I could and starred down that hot air balloon like a slutty girl who had just slept with my boyfriend.
The air puffed.  And I didn’t flinch.
Marcel patted me on the back and led me into another room. We said our goodbyes and she wished me luck.  Gosh I missed her already.    
The doctor entered the room a few minutes later.  Projecting rows of letters onto the screen, he asked me to recite row after row, what seemed like a million times.  I read the very bottom line all but twice.
“Great job,” the doctor said.  “You have 20-20 vision.”  Psh, I knew that already.
During the next portion of the exam, the doctor clicked back and forth between two different slides, asking me to tell him which looked clearer.  Now this was easy.   
Confident I had aced the entire exam, I was shocked, and let’s face it, a little devastated when moments later he informed me that I would be needing glasses. 
Glasses?! I was sure I had passed all the tests with flying colors.  I didn’t realize I had blurted this aloud until I heard the doctor explaining to me that was not the way it worked.
I had something called a stigmatism, and he attributed the scratchiness I had been experiencing in my eyes to needing a slight magnification.
Geeze this was confusing.  How could you have 20-20 vision and still need glasses?   
He handed me my prescription and walked me into another room where he introduced me to the lady that helped you pick out your frames.  Was this really happening?!
Twenty-three and losing my vision—looks like it’s all downhill from here. I picked out a pair I could live with and made the slow walk to the car.  At this rate I’m going to need Botox and a boob job by the time I’m 30!