My summer (so far) [part 1]

As many of you know (or, 'as many have been the victim of my complaining'), I traditionally work at a summer camp every summer (Camp Talahi, donations are always welcome, whatever...).  It was a wonderful place, filled with fascinating people, and--above all--paid a decent summer wage.

You may remember a few posts ago when I described my carny job as my first real job, which I still consider true, as working at camp was more pleasure than business.

Either way, the camp closed, and Summer 2010 has consisted of nothing but me wasting my time until the fall semester of classes.  While I should be focused on securing a stable summer job that pays money instead of 'thank you's and free food, I've spent the first part of my summer going to concerts, camping, cat-sitting, experiencing my first social-marijuana affair, living off-the-grid in Canada for an extended weekend, riding in several broken cars, watching lots and lots of movies, and an extended list of other non-productive activities.

All of this has really helped show me the person I really am: the laziest motherfucker on the planet.

Let me break down my summer in chunks, so you can better understand me:

SOMETHING STICKED THIS WAY COMES. Yes, I worked as a carny for 11 days.  Yes, I ate more sausages and stuck more corndogs than Oscar Meyer.  Yes, I got six hours of sleep a night, dreaming of nothing but serving processed meat.  And yes, we washed our hands before handling your food (unless you were being a dick, or we forgot).

I still have no qualms about my quick stint in the concession business, giving people food just the way God made it.  It kicked off my summer, giving me the most productive attitude I've had since giving my speech on the American Constitution in the 6th grade.

Still, let me be clear: It was gratifying.  But would I do it again, if given the opportunity?  Kick yourself in the balls.

THE... UM, SOMETHING... OUTDOORS. Just because my summer camp has closed down, doesn't mean I can't enjoy nature on a weekly basis.  Every other week or so since summer began, a few friends of mine have decided to start camping at an undisclosed location (remarkably similar in style/location as our old camp).  Being the out-doorsy person I am (with my MacBook and my fear of spiders), I was an obvious candidate to join in on these camping trips.

What, you may be asking, would set me apart from the rest of the pack, to make me such a natural camper?

The answer is: allergies.  Even with my dog, cat, and horse allergies, I still managed to obtain unfavorable reactions to outdoor-things, specifically... nature.

We really rough it out in the woods, shitting against a tree, listening to an iPod play through a car's speakers with the windows rolled down, and texting 'round an open fire.  We even manage to break into the cabins when we don't want to sleep in tents.

For the record, I no longer have keys to such buildings, because I gave them back to my boss at the end of the summer.

Let me rephrase that: I no longer have the keys I gave back to my boss at the end of the summer.

POT-LUCK COMMUNITY. I was certainly a high commodity in the camping world during the first part of this summer.  In fact, I went camping with a completely different group of people, who were 'high' in their own respects.

As it turns out, the main focus of this camping trip was not to become one with nature.  Rather, it was to smoke as much nature as possible, in a remote area, away from cops.  This was all fine and good, as long as I was not asked to participate.

While I am a firm believer that marijuana should be legalized, I have not--and am not about to--try it myself.  I mean, 'Twilight' is legal, but I'm not about to watch one of the movies.

Even though I had been in the proximity of ganja, bongs, pipes, etc. before, this experience seemed entirely different.  For one, our campsite was bordering a state prison.  This didn't seem like a pressing issue until someone found a sign nailed to a tree, stating:

Just like that, the man had harshened the mellow.  No slap on the wrist, no misdemeanor, no grumpy old Clint Eastwood wannabe grumbling to get off his property.  And no stoned midnight walks into the wild.  It was enough for even myself to say, "Hey, man... What's the big deal, man?  This is all our land, brother..."

I may not be a hippie now, but if I ever decide to become one, I know who has got the good shit.  And I know the exact place that I never want to be when I light up.

IT'S A CAT, CAT, CAT, CAT WORLD. Someone asked me to look after his cat for a week.  Despite my aforementioned allergies, I am still a cat person.  I am a cat person, mostly because a cat respects ones' allergies and leaves one alone.  Dogs, on the other hand, crave affection and will stop at nothing to make sure that your snotty nose resembles their saliva-slathered jowls as they jump on you while you're trying to eat your fucking chicken pot pie.

So I assumed that taking care of Mary The Cat would be a nice, simple gesture.  Sadly, it was not that, because my childhood memories of "taking care" of pets does not resemble the realities.  Being the manipulative child I was, I always promised to take care of any animal I wanted ("I'll feed it, walk it, not shoot at it with Nerf guns!"), and abruptly forget the animal's very existence.  Actually working to keep an animal alive was an entirely new concept for me.

Transporting the cat from one house to the other, 50 minutes away, was one of the most stressful situations of my summer.  Unfortunately, my friend's car is not in the best condition of its life, with a faulty speedometer that always reads 0, a mechanism in the shifting column I can only describe as 'don't take that pin out or we could all die,' and a complete lack of air conditioning.

I had grown accustomed to all of these flaws for some time.  Mary, however, seemed less-than-comfortable, specifically in regards to the air conditioner situation.  Even with our windows rolled down, Mary was still being a whiny little brat about everything.  I took this as a sign that something was wrong.  As a result, our entire trip consisted of the cat peeking through the bars of her kennel and meowing and me yelling at her to not die.

Yes, I was concerned what Mary's owner would think of me if she did end up becoming an ex-cat.  How irresponsible would it look if the feline died in the 50 minutes it took to transport?  Pets aren't supposed to die in-transit; they're supposed to run into the road after some lesser animal, right in front of Mr. Vermeiser's Oldsmobile.

Fortunately for me, my mom had already started to care for a stray cat living on our back porch, so there was no need for me to buy food.  However, Jeff's specific instruction was that Mary is strictly an indoor cat, which meant one thing: litter box.  Three days later, after I cleaned the litter box for the first time, I immediately hugged my mother, apologizing for the thousands of times she must have shoveled kitty poops out of that plastic box when I was little and ignoring my pets' presence.

I will admit, when it was time for Mary to leave, I had grown quite a relationship with her.  She was like family, if there was such a family member you could have for a week before sending her away again.

Sure, I enjoyed the time I spent with Mary, but I would've liked it more if she was a cactus instead; to my knowledge, I'm not allergic to a cactus.