Roughing It And Other Things First World People Do For Fun

I really love Starbucks Via and the pleasant suggestions they print on the sides. For instance, just now I opened my coffee cupboard and there on the Via carton it said "For your hotel stay." That made me think happily of the trip we're going to take to California--where, come to think of it, we won't actually be staying in a hotel--and I saw myself, in a tasteful yet economical hotel room, waking up next to my husband and puttering, happy and relaxed, to the, um, hot pot or stove which I'm sure, now, they will have, skipping the hotel coffee, and fixing up a Via.

I am a marketers dream. I am open to all manner of suggestion of pleasant times. You don't even have to try. All you have to do is write in a book what a character is eating and I will crave it. Reading "The Crimson Petal and the White", I craved tea and cinnamon scones. "Snow Flower and the Secret Fan" had me eating potstickers and green tea ice cream for weeks. I don't remember a thing about the Narnia books, which I didn't love, except that in one of them they ate sausages as fat as your fingers (I quote loosely) and drank frothy hot chocolate. The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo posed a bit of a problem, as the characters were prone to eating things like sandwiches of egg and sardine, or tomato and cheese and raw garlic, but I solved that by making tuna melts, always with coffee on the side, just like Mikael Blomkvist.

So on Sunday night when Noah said, "Let's go camping", I thought two things. One, yay Via, and two, yay Campfire Marshmallows. Campfire Marshmallows are what all the ladies on the Mormon blogs are packing for their families. One marshmallow is about four times the size of one measly Jet Puff. Seriously, these marshmallows make Jet Puffs look like guppy chow. I'd bought a pack in advance and had it sitting in my cupboard, driving my girls crazy with longing in happy anticipation of our camping trip.

We forgot the marshmallows.

I would like to blame the fact that I was a little carsick, but instead I'll tell the truth which is that, as Mr. V put it, "S'mores are the whole reason mommy goes camping". Which isn't entirely true, I also go camping to sip coffee in the woods in the (late) morning. It improves my self-image; allows me to view myself as 'outdoorsy' and 'contemplative', as woodsy and and earthy but low-maintenance, sitting there quietly with a hot mug and beatific smile and ignoring Mr. V's curses as he struggles with the fire and the bacon and the fact that we didn't bring any garbage bags and the kids have soiled all seven of their spare outfits.

I go camping solely to eat the s'mores, and that is my only excuse for the fact that I, a thirty-year-old mother of two, started to cry when I realized we'd forgotten the Marshmallow's From the Land That Time Forgot.

Mr. V set up camp while I told my kids to look sad and pathetic and dragged them across the campsite to bum marshmallows from some fellow campers. I am enormously brave in certain situations, mostly when I am drunk, but also when my access to s'mores and/or sugar and alcohol is threatened. The ladies kindly gave me twelve of their inferior Jet-Puffs and refused to let me pay them. Later I would suspect these self-same ladies of conspiring with a nearby retired couple to murder us in our sleep. But that wouldn't come until much later, when the sun went down and the fires went out and I found myself awake in the deep deep dark, and look we thought we had seen a bear and even though it only turned out to be a stupid bear-cow, forcing Ayla to turn to art therapy to sketch out her frustration at being gipped out of the sight of a real bear, I had bears on the brain and the kindly ladies had walked around the site and then STOPPED to TALK with the RETIRED COUPLE WITH AN AGING YELLOW LABRADOR which can only mean that they intended to murder us with axes in our sleep and make off with our Hershey Bars and Via.

Tent camping is one of those things only first-world people do for fun, along with slaving in the hot sun to pick our own berries, making our own cheese and yogurt, canning preserves, and wearing high heels. Everywhere else in the world they call these activities what they are, which is "hard work" and "things I would never, ever do if I didn't have to".

This is why I think I might be what you'd call "over" tent-camping. This and the fact that I can liken the experience only to pine-scented torture. Like the Viet Kong decided to mop the floors before laying into me with the bamboo shoots. We didn't have cots, or air mattresses, or even thick blankets, and so I spent the night cold and in pain that reached about five or six on the pain scale, I'm not ashamed to say I could have used nothing more than a Valium-Ambien cocktail, kept up by visions of my own death by Golden Age pass members and really, I don't see why I'd want to do that again.

But I will. I'll do it again, because it's fun for the kids. Because there's nothing kids enjoy more than repeating "we're bored!" and "noooow can I have a marshmallow??" while Mom and Dad sweat it over the rain clouds, and the Amazonian volume of mosquitoes, and the bear-cows, and the tent, and the rain fly, and the axe murderers, and the forgotten hammer and trash bags and the eighth outfit they didn't know they were going to need because they had underestimated how difficult it is to make a number two in the woods when you're four-years-old. I'll do it again in spite of, or maybe because of, the bear-cow; for the time-honoring of the tradition, complaining the whole way about the ride, complaining about how long it's taking to pack in and pack out while mom and dad slave like suckers, complaining about the smoke that blows always in your eyes, and the marshmallow you burnt to a crisp before losing in the fire, while Mom and Dad shuffle exhausted from the picnic table to the fire to the car, like Zombies without a will to keep on un-living, wondering why they do it, why they bother. Because for five minutes the clouds break and you can see millions of stars. Because, in spite of all this, you drive, ripe and weary and wondering if it's too early for a hip replacement, back into the hot and shiny city, balking at the noise, squinting at the glare, you remember the cool of the river and the quiet in the trees, and you wish you could do it all again.

I Am A Douche

On a mild Tuesday in November I had a massive, overly dramatic, overly wrought, overly indulgent writerly--'writerly'--breakdown.

I came into the house and pulled the 'manuscript' (read: stack of semi-indulgent, overwrought, overly dramatic, six or seventh draft-edited pages of fiction) out of my Jack Pack (look, I resent that I have to call my lovely green messenger bag my Jack Pack,especially as I don't even watch the show wherein one of the Sutherland men pretends to face the dangers that I faced at work everyday), and I threw in into a drawer.

I can't do it anymore, I whined to Mr. V. I've been working on this thing for two and half years and it isn't working, it's not coming together and I can't look at it another second.

You should take a break, said Mr. V reasonably and I threw my shoe at him, going for 'tortured' and 'bohemian', but really all I got was a confused husband and the suggestion that I make my own damn dinner because now there would be blood in the peas.

I spent a good 6 weeks doing nothing but watching Supernatural. We've discussed it before. It was a bona fide funk. It was ugly. I hid in my room curled up on my bed with my lover laptop and my best friend wine (Please Laptop and Wine, please never leave! I love you! I'll be anything you want me to be and no I don't think we should go out and do stuff, we are so happy right heeeeere!)

Then, some time after Christmas, I began my stumbling ascent. I climbed out of the funk in fits and lurches, and started functioning again: again I was able to carry out conversations, brush my teeth, take interest in something other than the devil ruining the road trip for the brothers.

The beautiful, beautiful brothers. . . with the guns and the gravelly voices and the authority issues. . . hmm? Oh you're still here? Sorry.

I went to Bookstore Job to save the world, but I kept hearing: I want to quit my job to write full time.

I know.

It was more than my own little fancy. It was that quiet, deep down voice. I don't know what to call it. Can we call it Hermione? I think she embodies quiet, persistent wisdom. And if there's one thing we know about Hermione, it's that she won't be ignored.

Hermione kept whispering at me to quit my job to write full time, and can I just say that Hermione had never whispered that before? Since I started taking writing seriously, about six years ago, Hermione would sometimes chime in with an image or a bit of dialogue and an occasional--very, very occasional--nudge of encouragement. She would never be like, "You are going to be rich and famous and drinking dollars for breakfast!" but sometimes she would be like, "Writing is good!". You know the Brits, stiff upper lip and all that. I wrote on most Saturday mornings, and sometimes Sunday mornings, and that was enough. Hermione and I were fine. I enjoyed Black Ops, and we needed the income, and I wrote a few hours a week and that was dandy. Hermione wasn't saying crazy things like "Quit your job to make no money!" or "Put on that muumuu and offer to do the Single Ladies dance for your mailman, he will love it!", and it was good.

Now she wouldn't leave me alone. She kept bugging me when I was trying to shelve books and kill terrorists. She nagged me as I washed the dishes and, rather uncomfortably, was fond of appearing while I was in the shower. "Quit your job to write full time or I will tell Dumbledore," she would say. "Stop looking at my nuddy bits you fussy British prat!" I would yell back.

"What?" Mr. V would call from the kitchen. "Who are you talking to in there?"

It was a confusing time.

Look, I told her finally, because she wouldn't shut up. Of course I want to 'write full time'. But 'writing full time' was something I'd always imagined I'd do when I actually became, you know--a writer? A person who wrote and got paid for it. A person with permission from the outside world to take herself seriously. Hermione said pish posh to that, write full time now. And buy some new underpants, what if you had a car accident?

It was time to level with Hermione. So I looked her in the eye and I told her: I can't tell my husband I want to quit my job that pays real money to take up a job that pays no money. I don't make a lot, but my income was paying more than half our rent. We are living paycheck to paycheck here--and I wish Suze Orman would quit yelling at me about that, all accusatory-like, as if it's some sort of shortcoming. I have news for you, Suzy Orman: living paycheck to paycheck isn't easy. It's a friggin accomplishment. Every time I hear Suze excoriating someone for living paycheck to paycheck, as if they have a choice, I want to yell back at her: You spend more in a month on Lady Blazers than I do on groceries for four people. YOU are the one who is doing something wrong.

But I don't yell at her because I hope to one day have a rather handsome Lady Blazer Budget myself.

So what I said to Hermione is this: I cannot possibly tell my husband that I want to quit my job to 'write full time'. I need some help here. Because this just is not something I can ask for.

And that week, Mr. V came home and said these words: I am going to rearrange my schedule and take on a second job so that you can quit your job and have more time to work on your writing.

Obviously, I protested. I told him I couldn't let him do that. What a ridiculous thing to do, quit a real job for a fantasy one. But then Hermione was all like, What the fuh??!? Don't you remember our little conversation over the dirty dishes? Also, I know you're still wearing that underwear you got on clearance in 1997. I am the mouthpiece of the Divine, I am watching you, and I am concerned about your undergarments.

And I realized that I couldn't turn this down.

So that is how it came to pass that last week, I worked my last day at Operation: Bookstore. It was a difficult step to take because it involved doing this thing I was repeatedly instructed not to do as a child: It required me to Take Myself So Seriously. The worst part was, everyone had to SEE me Taking Myself So Seriously, bear witness to my pretentious airs. I had to confess to all my comrades, because I believe in truth, that I was quitting my job to "pursue my writing".

You know who takes themselves so seriously? You know who quits their jobs to "write full time"?

Massive douches.

The Douche Kings of the Doucheatrons.

And so I am. A douche.

But comrades, I'm a happy one.

I am Vesuvius and Hermione was wrong about the mailman.

Prophetess

Yesterday:

"Knock knock," said Ayla.

"Who's there?" said I.

"Interrupting diarrhea!"

Well that's just good comedy, I thought to myself. The best part was her delivery--clearly that was the punchline. Because if you were, say, shopping for Shake Weights and found yourself suddenly interrupted by diarrhea, would you take the time to say "interrupting diarrhea who?"

Me neither.


Today:

It had been a long day. I had walked into Michael's thinking it would be 'easy' and, I don't know, 'cute', to pick up supplies and have the girls make their own Valentine's. I have never been so wrong in my life. We took one step into the store that will eternally smell of fake flowers and wicker and I immediately started crying. Indy was all like "What's wrong?" and "don't cry, mommy", and I told her to stop being such a little brown-noser and give mommy a minute to recover from massive stamp and sticker over-stimulation. Panting, in a cold sweat, I called my sister. In reassuring tones she navigated me through the meelee like this was wartime Saigon and she was on her third tour. She knew the natives, she spoke the language. "Card stock and construction paper are basically the same things," she said, calmly enough to almost make me believe everything was going to be all right, despite all evidence to the contrary. "But it all has flowers on it," I sobbed. "And storks, and soccer balls. Oh god I am too young to die!"

"You are not in enemy territory," she said firmly. "That is just the scrapbooking section."

Well. You coulda fooled me.

After that I dragged my weary soldier to Target because apparently Michael's is too upscale for people like me who don't wish to make our own stickers out of German glitter glue and the blood of the Viet Cong. She is four, and she was tired, so naturally she went for the only option available to her: stamping her foot, screaming, and making the bloody purple monsters dance to their eerie funeral dirge five thousand times. Oh baby you . . . got what I neeeeeeed. I think she must have picked up something about torture methods during our time in the war zone.

We made it out of Target with, I swear to god, two cans of chopped clams, one box of stamps without an ink pad, two cute bags with owls on them that I have little to no use for, and absolutely none of the things for which we had come. We called it a wash. Went to get Ayla.

Went to King Soopers.

Almost made it alive through the store at rush hour. Got to the check out. Kindly gentlemen ringing up my goods. Me, magnanimously distributing quarters and pennies to my own little waifs to entertain them during the wait.

"Mom," Ayla whines. "I have to go potty."

"You're gonna have to wait just a minute. We're almost done."

"Mom," she starts to cry. "I have to go POTTY."

And then she grabs her bottom.

"We're going to have an accident!!" Poor, poor me screams to the kindly checker. I grab my daughter and friends, I ran like a bat out of hell--honestly, Louis Zamperini had nothing on me--my daughter in my arms, a mad dash for the bathroom on the opposite end of the store. "Will you watch my daughter!" I cry over my shoulder to the checker, pointing to my little cowgirl Indy--wearing her pink cowgirl boots, grinning like an idiot, obliviously enjoying her penny pony ride like no one has ever enjoyed that ride before. My wallet hit the floor, coins flew, people stared. I'm pretty sure at one point an old woman pushing a baby carriage pulled out of my way in the slickest nick of time. I elbowed and leapt and beat people back the way my teenage self once did trying to get front row seating at an O-Town concert. If you were there, I truly do apologize for those things that I shouted. Please interpret them in the kindest possible way.

The women's room is closed.

"Hello!" I yell, and dash into the men's.

Empty. Good things do happen.

Ayla is flustered. Teary. Probably a little embarrassed and a lot terrified. I situate her so she can see to her business. She's drawing in quick little breaths, chewing her bottom lip. I take a deep breath. She looks like she might cry.

"Ayla?" I say softly.

"Yeah?" her little voice wobbly.


". . . Knock knock."

Love / Money

May I be honest for a moment? I can't decide which is more important to me: Following your dreams, or making money.

Everyone out there is telling us to do what we love and the money will follow. But no one has instructions on how to carry on when 'what you love' turns out to be writing and brewing beer. If you want to make money, you know what you don't be? A writer or a brewer. It turns out that no money follows. At all. Unless you count free beer (I do, but only a little).These are probably two of the most unlucrative (nonlucrative?) careers out there. Because guess what? There is one J.K Rowling and one Adolph Coors and we are not them.

We made this move, this 'career-change' as I am fond of calling it because I imagine it makes me sound less insane, almost exactly a year ago. And while I wish I could sing to you ballads of our triumph and bravery now at the first annual, I knew all along that wouldn't be the case.

I'm not complaining. I went into this with both eyes open. We did this because we believe in dreams, we believe in risks, and we didn't want Mr.V to work for a few more years at a job he hated and then one day wake up and we own a house and two cars and are used to living in a level of comfort that we would have been much, much more hesitant to leave.

O magazine lands in my mailbox every month telling me to follow my north star, or my bliss, or my passions. And it's not just the big O telling me this--it's our entire culture. The Dream Machine. Heavy in the ether is the idea that if you are brave enough to do what you truly, truly love--happiness will follow.

I'm not saying that isn't true. It's still too soon to tell.

But there we were, my husband and I, walking to the car after our first 'date' in months. The date was going around to breweries where they feed us free beer because we bring it to them in return. And it hit me that I just don't know if it's worth it.

I really don't. I'm saying this to offer it up for your consideration. There is another side to all this. I believe you should follow your dreams but what if your dreams are careers that earn basically no money? Mr. V has traded in that awful soul-sucking job for one he enjoys. But it has been a huge, huge sacrifice and I'm not saying it isn't worth it. I'm just telling you, I don't know yet.

There are times I wonder if we should throw in the towel and go take the highest paying jobs we can find. Work up from there.

All of this may never, ever pay off.

But you see, it might. And so I just keep going.

I am Vesuvius, and I will trade you beer for sweaters.

Notes from the Underground

I, Vesuvius At Home, come to you today from and undisclosed location along the northern front range. The reason for our secrecy is thus, dear readers: Vesuvius has gone undercover and sneaked onto a computer that does not belong to her at one local craft brewery.

This is because Vesuvius has moved and does not yet have the magic of the internets installed in her home.

It's going to be another week until this blogger can type her missives to you live from Longmont, which is otherwise known as Boulder's right nostril.

For now I can only tell you this: The official colors of Longmont appear to be bright cobalt and lime green. The official animal appears to be the goose.

I say this because I have spotted two of them in the enormous giant papier-mache variety.

One is outside the Blue Ribbon Dairy. It is black with white naked people on it in a style that is vaguely kabuki.

The other one is at the offices of the Longmont Times Call and somehow manages to resemble Benjamin Franklin.

Vesuvius has not yet discovered the reasons for this madness, but dear readers, it is my solemn vow to reveal it to you exclusively once it is known to me.

Darlings, as I type, this blogger was spotted--made, I was made!--by an unidentified member of the Oskar Blues Brew Crew.

He appeared to know me, but alas--I did not know him.

Could he be a member of a covert operation sent to discover Vesuvius during her sole foray into the wonderful and appealing world of the interwebs? Could he mean this blogger harm? Or maybe--just maybe--has he been sent to shine a ray of beer-filtered light into the bleak internet-less life of this lonley sojurner?

This blogger must now unclench her fingers from this lovely mouse and tear her eyes from this gorgeous blinking computer screen to crawl back to the depths of her undercover location.

Until next time.

From Longmont, I am Vesuvius. Signing off.