Foxy Wine Pocket

Me, uncensored.

  • About
  • Books
  • Events
  • Contact Me

For Sale: My Husband’s Final Hopes and Dreams

By Foxy

I haven’t been camping in over a decade. Wanna know why? Because I hate it. I fucking hate it.

I guess I didn’t always find camping so detestable. I spent my summers in high school working as a counselor at a campground outside of Yosemite. Three full months of that camping shit. In college, I used to personally initiate camping trips on the weekends and during breaks—pitching a tent, hiking, fishing, cooking up my catch—all that crap. Even in my early married years, I actually enjoyed camping as a leisurely activity.

Me, as a camp counselor. Of course that dirty hippy loved camping. Of course she did.

But now? Camping is dead to me.

I guess it’s not so much that I hate camping per se. I just hate all the prep work—planning the meals, shopping for food, collecting supplies, packing the car like a life-sized Tetris game, cooking like a caveman without the proper tools and always forgetting that one essential item. And the dirt that gets in every tiny crevice of my body and inside my drink. And the bugs and the spiders and the human-eating mammals that are everywhere in nature. And not having a hot shower. And sleeping on the motherfucking ground. And the standoff between me and my husband to put the gear away when we get home that lasts so long several colonies of mold flourish and die in our cooler.

OKAY, FINE. I hate everything about camping. PER SE.

The last (meaning both “most recent in time” and “final”) camping trip we took as a family was before my son was born. My husband and I took our daughter out to scenic Mount Hood in Oregon. We wanted to share our love of the outdoors with her and expose her at a young age the camping life. I think I was even excited about trip.

But then she puked in her car seat on the way up the mountain, and I couldn’t get the potato-chip-vomit smell out of my car. And I had to change her diapers in the dirt without a proper hand-washing station nearby. And she didn’t sleep well. And keeping her safe and entertained was exhausting. And she spit out the fish we served.  And… and… AND I COULD GO ON FOREVER.

It was about that time I realized that my daughter would have been just as happy playing in the sandbox at the neighborhood park. And I wouldn’t have had to exert all of this non-existent energy and live in the dirt like an animal. And we could vacation where it was clean and comfortable. Where people cook food for you. And cater to your every need.

My husband captured the exact moment I realized camping was stupid.

I mean, if she had loved camping, I might have tried harder. I might have summoned up more enthusiasm. I might have given it another go. (I’m lying.)

See? Even she knew it was dumb.

On the way home, I told my husband there would be no more camping—at least not until the kids were potty trained. (I was lying.) He was disappointed, but ultimately understood. Changing dirty diapers in the wilderness was a powerful repellant.

After our youngest was (finally) using the toilet, my husband cheerfully brought up the idea of camping that summer. I screamed, “You shut your dirty mouth!” and ran screaming from the room. I politely declined and suggested maybe another year. I just wasn’t feeling it yet. (Another lie.) He brought it up repeatedly over the next few years until I finally declared I would not be camping ever again in this lifetime if I could help it. He was crushed. I was finally not lying.

“But Foxy,” you say. “You’re missing out on priceless memories.”

“Fuck that,” I say. “We can make memories in a motherfucking hotel.”

Anyhow, my anxiety-induced purging recently brought me to the garage where I discovered some backpacking gear. Not just regular camping supplies, but goddamn backpacking gear my husband bought when he was delusional, thinking his wife would not just camp again but leave the car miles away from the campground and carry all of our gear on our fucking backs.

I shudder even looking at this picture. Much to my husband’s dismay, this stove has never, ever been used. It’s a pretty nice one too. Not that I give a shit.

So yeah, the camping stove has got to go. It’s taking up too much space in my life and giving my husband a false sense of hope that he will ever achieve his dream of camping with me ever again. I will crush those dreams like tiny heads. I am a dream crusher. (A warm, clean, comfortable dream crusher at that.)

Me, camping out on a beautiful deck in Boulder with my Snuggie and a beverage. Secure in the fact that I had plumbing, a comfortable bed, and plentiful hot water nearby. The only thing that would have made it better was a good book.

Don’t worry. I’ll make it up to him. Not this way. And certainly NOT that way. Maybe I’ll just throw some dirt in his face to remind him how good he has it at home.


Follow Foxy Wine Pocket on Facebook and Twitter. You can also subscribe to my blog and never miss a new post. It’s quick and easy! (That’s what she said.)

Filed Under: #notwinning, #winning, Love & Marriage

Comments

  1. michelle says

    July 11, 2017 at 4:13 am

    This is perfect. I fucking HATE camping. I hate it. But I love you and I think we are soulmates.

    • Foxy says

      July 11, 2017 at 6:45 am

      We are indeed soulmates. I just know it.

  2. Lisa K says

    July 11, 2017 at 5:03 am

    Best non-camping defense ever.
    I’m close enough to the wilderness in my singlewide, thank you 🙂

    • Foxy says

      July 11, 2017 at 6:47 am

      Yes. Yes, you are.

  3. Chrissy Woj says

    July 11, 2017 at 6:18 am

    I don’t have kids yet, so I still love camping. But I never camp without an air mattress. Or walking distance of plumbing for me to shower and poop. And also walking distance of a store. And a bar. Basically, I only like resort camping. Also, Brian and I both grew up with campers/popups, so we agree that when the tiniest of humans enter our lives, we’ll be going that route and buying an RV. Because air conditioning, refrigeration, and beds.

    • Foxy says

      July 11, 2017 at 6:49 am

      I will rent a cabin in the woods. (As long as it has plumbing, a kitchen, and a comfy bed.)

  4. Suzie says

    July 11, 2017 at 7:08 am

    Camping to me is a hotel without a restaurant!

    • Foxy says

      July 11, 2017 at 7:17 am

      EXACTLY.

  5. Jacq says

    July 11, 2017 at 11:22 am

    I still enjoy camping but now we end two days of camping w two days in a hotel!

    • Foxy says

      July 11, 2017 at 11:50 am

      I’ll take “4 Days in a Hotel” for $1000, Alex. ?

  6. Elly Lou says

    July 11, 2017 at 5:00 pm

    Fuck sliced bread. Running water ALWAYS wins.

  7. Heather Garcia says

    July 13, 2017 at 12:38 am

    I don’t camp I hotel (Embassy Suites for the win) and so does my husband so I found myself a winner.

  8. qwertygirl says

    July 21, 2017 at 10:14 am

    Society has spent thousands of years to get AWAY from camping. A thousand years ago, life WAS camping. And people invented things like light bulbs, and blow dryers, and air conditioning because they recognized that camping SUCKS and they didn’t want to do it anymore. So why would normal human beings go back to what our ancestors so clearly intended for us not to do anymore?? It makes no sense to me.

Follow Me!

  • 
  • 
  • 
  • 

Subscribe via Email

Enter your email address to subscribe to Foxy Wine Pocket and receive new posts by email—tiny presents delivered straight to your Inbox.

Best of Foxy Wine Pocket

  • My First (and Last) Brazilian
  • The Pooping Tree
  • What Women Think About Blowjobs
  • Why I Should (Not?) Teach Sex Ed
  • Motherhood Is Disgusting
  • Rules of Swearing for My Children

Search for Previous Posts

Recent Posts

  • Bless the Baby, but Fuck All the Fluids
  • Beware of Killer Tampons
  • The Perfect Wife
  • I Do NOT Recommend This Diet Plan
  • How Do You Make a Clown Nativity Set Even More Awesome?

Archives

Copyright © 2022 · Foxy Wine Pocket · All rights reserved · Privacy Policy

Tweet
Close

Buy me a drink?

A ridiculous amount of coffee and booze is consumed in the process of writing these stories. Add some fuel if you'd like to keep me going!

 

Subscribe to Foxy Wine Pocket!

Enter your email address to subscribe to Foxy Wine Pocket and receive new posts by email—tiny presents delivered straight to your Inbox.

×