I hadn’t been camping in over ten years. After a couple of harrowing experiences involving grueling portages, canoeing through bogs and waiting for bears to eat me, I concluded that I wasn’t cut out for outdoorsy adventures. Time heals all wounds, however, and the past couple of years have worn down my anti-camping resolve.

The Sweetie and I decided to take baby steps and start with car camping. I had a cute camping outfit packed, jangly silver bangles, marshmallows and wine. I was ready for my new incarnation as a camping goddess.

My excitement turned to trepidation when I discovered a large tooth where we were about to pitch our tent. Suddenly things took on a Blair Witch overtone. Our lovely campsite immediately felt sinister.

“Is it human?”, I asked.

” I don’t know. That is totally bizarre.”

“Who would pull out a tooth on a camping trip?”

Who indeed. Perhaps it hadn’t been voluntary. I began to envision human sacrifices. Or zombies with rotting teeth roaming around the camping grounds, waiting for some fresh human flesh.

The way The Sweetie was examining the tooth and trying to sound nonchalant worried me.

“How would a tooth get here?” he mumbled to himself.

How and why? That is the question. Did it fall out of a skull? Was it brought here for some ritual, was it pulled out? Did it fall out while gnawing on something, like a human leg perhaps?

“Maybe it isn’t human. It’s pretty big.“

I could only wish that it was a bear. A bear was the least of my worries at this point.

“Forget it“, The Sweetie said, kicking the tooth aside and cracking open a beer. I could tell he was still disturbed.

I began combing the campsite, searching for more teeth or a jawbone. It wasn’t long before I discovered a tiny bone near the fire.

“What the hell is this?” I shrieked.

“That’s a chicken bone for God’s sake. Relax.”

Was it really? To me it looked like a tiny femur. Who eats chicken wings when camping? That would be so messy.  I began to imagine pocket-sized teeth-pulling, plier-wielding pygmies running about, circling the campfire at nightfall.

It started to rain around the time we were making dinner. Waiting out the torrential rains in the car, holding a camping fork with dripping sausages on my lap, I reminisced about our conversation as we were packing and I was carefully placing my berry crisp in the cooler. The Sweetie had suggested rain gear. “Rain gear?” I scoffed. “It’s only one night. We’re car camping, we’ll be fine!”

I began to wonder if the rain was a warning, telling us to leave the campsite while there was still a chance to high tail it back to civilization with all of our teeth intact. I sat under a damp towel stoically eating roasted marshmallows while The Sweetie valiantly kept the fire alive. We finally tucked ourselves into our tent and I dozed briefly, only to wake up from a nightmare about a serial killer in the woods. After that my chances at sleep were shot. I was on high alert, listening for snapping branches and other ominous night sounds. The incessant rain and thunder sounded like a combination of a drum kit and a million little tap dancers on the roof of our tent.The Sweetie had instructed me not to touch the edges of the tent to avoid having rain leak in. My hips dug into the ground and felt like they belonged to a ninety year old woman as I curled carefully into the fetal position. I was scared to move for fear of flooding, and afraid to shut my eyes. It was a long night.

As soon as it was light enough The Sweetie crawled out of the tent and announced, ”I am lighting a fire, making some coffee and then we are getting out of this god forsaken place.” Those may be the sweetest words I’ve ever heard.

Maybe I am fighting my true nature. I love the idea of being a wilderness girl, communing with nature, building fires and being at one with the great outdoors. I dream of having a posse of woodland creatures. I still have hope that one day I will own a backpack and a pair of hiking shoes. In reality though, I have a fondness for soft beds, ice cubes in my drinks, scented body lotions and dry clothing.  My personality is plagued with an over active imagination and a fear of spiders, bears, snakes and serial killers. I may be too prissy and neurotic for true wilderness adventures. I may be better suited for swank zombie-free resorts with well manicured hiking trails and a Sherpa to carry my urban snacks.

I am a rock and roll rebel indeed.

I have a new necklace.

The lovely and talented Amy at Smitten Kitten is the perfect model for her own works. I saw her last week wearing one of her creations and instantly decided that I needed to be just like her. What I really wanted was her entire ensemble down to her lust-worthy Frye sandals. Luckily she has dainty feet, otherwise I would have had to jump her and nab her shoes. I settled for buying the necklace and I have been merrily wearing it ever since. I love a good dose of gilded nature.

Is is shallow that a new trinket makes me so happy? I guess I’m a very happy shallow girl. I have a gold feather around my neck and I think woodland creatures would approve.

It was hot yesterday. Sticky stinking hot where the humidex rose into the forties, the air was thick and everyone was moving like a zombie and sighing.

I could have languished near a fan and napped like a cat but then I thought of all the long dreary winter days when I am pining for summer and feeling miserable. With that in mind The Sweetie and I rented a canoe at Harbourfront and escaped the grumbling, the wilting and the oppressive heat. We paddled along the Toronto Islands feeling the coolish air rise from the lake, spotting herons and watching the leaves on the trees glimmering like the light from disco balls. Admiring the cityscape through a mist of smog suddenly felt romantic, like we were viewing the city through a soft focus lens. It felt like a coup to carve out some peaceful nature time from what would otherwise be a muggy, mundane day. We paddled for a few hours and then sat outside on a patio with a pitcher of beer, heavy canoe paddling arms and smug expressions on our faces.

It was glorious. Despite the fact that I was covered with yellow dye that was coming off my wet bag, like I was perspiring bright yellow alien sweat. Despite the fact that I am growing a giant pimple in the middle of my forehead so that I resembled a young developing unicorn. Despite the fact that my hair was plastered to my forehead, and my face had a weird otherworldly sheen because of my heavy-handed sunscreen slathering. I think I smelled. I never felt better. I was a sultry, steamy, summertime minx.

Summer days and stolen magical moments will do that to a person.

A rooster alarm clock. Could anything be more delightful? Who wouldn’t rise and shine with a smile on their face with this beauty crowing at them? And it does crow, the full cock-a-doodle-doo crowing. I love it. Two dollars has bought me brighter mornings. Joy comes cheap in the summertime.

After the ceremony there was an announcement that juice and brownies were available for the children while the adults took photos. The kindergarten teacher began mingling and congratulating the parents. Suddenly she approached my friend and told her what a delight her daughter was. I was smiling in the background in full agreement when she turned to me and asked,

“Is this grandma?”

She was asking my childhood friend, who I went to kindergarten with, if I was her daughter’s grandmother. Which would make my friend, who I went to kindergarten with, my daughter. I did the math. It is possible to be a grandma to a six year old at forty-one. If I gave birth to my childhood friend at 16, and she in turn had her daughter at 16, I could in fact have a granddaughter. I don’t know which is worse, to be mistaken for being pregnant, which has happened to me, or to be mistaken for a grandma at forty-one. I guess the worst would have been if I was mistaken for a pregnant grandma.

I silently stepped aside to reveal the charming wizened lady behind me. My friend said, “This is grandma“. The real grandma is well into her seventies. She looks good, but she does not look like my contemporary.

I was speechless. Often in uncomfortable situations, people pleaser that I am, I try to help the idiot with her foot in her mouth feel less asinine. Instead, I turned silently to the table of brownies, mentally assessing that there were a few left and not that many children remaining. I was still assessing the brownies when the idiot teacher approached me again, flustered and babbling this time, tripping over herself, “Oh, I was hearing so much about grandma and how grandma was coming and that what was on my mind because I was expecting to see grandma.” I turned to the brownies again.

I am sure that children are expecting the Easter bunny at Easter but I have yet to be mistaken for the Easter bunny. The Queen is coming to Canada this week, and although some monarchists are anticipating seeing her, I doubt that I will be mistaken for the Queen.

Between the questions about my phantom pregnancy and now my rapid approach to playing canasta in a retirement home, I am developing a huge complex. The brownies that I shoved in my purse comforted me a little but I remain wounded. What is truly appalling is that this deranged lunatic who calls herself a teacher is allowed to teach. She is influencing the minds of the next generation. Luckily for me I won’t live to see it as my days are obviously numbered.

The time has come for desperate measures. I have been getting more and more alarmed by my expanding girth but my fourteen year old boy appetite cannot be tamed. I am not a woman who craves salads, light healthy meals and clean eating. I have the palette of a truck driver and unfortunately I am starting to resemble one.

When planning my recent trip to Newfoundland I was looking forward to eating fish and chips. I ate a form of fried fish and chips every day, sometimes accompanied by a small plastic cup of coleslaw as a token vegetable. Not everyone has the chops for such feats of oil and batter but for my mighty iron stomach it was pure grease induced bliss. My feasts induced a dreamlike trance, akin to what opium den dwellers must experience, with glassy half-lidded eyes and an overwhelming need to recline on silky pillows. I half expected to die of a french fry induced stroke but I would have gone happily, requesting that my greasy ashes be scattered over the crashing waves of the Atlantic. It was a glorious greasy time.

It has to stop. I was at a Dancing With Parkinson’s event last night at a salsa club surrounded by shimmying supermodels in tiny dresses. I chugged gin and tonics in my frumpy sensible skirt, felt the sweat running down the back of my legs, my fried fish barrel gut straining against my Spanx. I capped off the evening by convincing The Sweetie that I needed an eggplant parmesan sandwich to soak up the gin. Obviously the sight of skinny models wasn’t enough motivation to change my fried food proclivities. Nevertheless I woke up this morning with a slight hangover and new resolve. I will reintroduce fruits and vegetables into my life and work towards doing my pants up again.

Despite my love of summer I’m not a fan of summer solstice as it marks the beginning of the days getting shorter.  I prefer being on the upswing, knowing that every day is getting longer.

For today, however, despite the tiniest whisper of dread, I will wear my summer dress and embrace the glorious sun.

I heart Newfoundland!

Newfoundland is truly magical. Everything was breathtaking, every corner turned was more adorable than the previous one. I listened to fiddle music and watched old couples, young girls and weathered fishermen dance together. I saw moose with their big jowls and dainty legs amble across the road. I met the most charming, genuine, lovely people I have ever encountered. Jagged cliffs protruded out on the crashing Atlantic making everything feel untamed and atmospheric.

At times I felt very dramatic, like I should be clutching a cloak to my chest and wailing for my sailor lover who had been smashed against the rocks. Other times I felt hearty, rosy cheeked and giddy from bracing hikes with the wind whipping in all directions. I passed through picturesque fishing villages with adorable names and quaint colourful homes nestled between the rocks. It was glorious.

The Sweetie and The Sweetie’s sister were delightful travel companions who were forgiving of my pathetic sense of direction, although I do now expect recognition for being an excellent moose spotter.

I didn’t see icebergs, although I drank a lot of local iceberg beer. I was cold every day even when wearing a wool hat and mittens and it was still an amazing trip. That is a sign of a magical place indeed.