This week Mister Bubby has been attending a day camp put on by some teenage girls from church.  I don’t know what qualifies these girls to run a day camp in someone’s mom’s back yard, and for all I know it may not even be legal.  Mine is a don’t ask, don’t tell policy.  I do know the camp is a good thing for the following reasons:

  • For $50 I can get rid of one of one of my kids for three hours a day for five days.
  • With both Elvis and Princess Zurg in summer school, MB was in need of some diversion of his own.
  • Every day has a different theme.  It’s so cute!
  • They call it “Cool Kids Camp,” and they don’t spell it “Kool Kidz Kamp.”  Granted, perhaps the only reason for this random act of standard English is that they didn’t want to be running an operation with the initials KKK, but it pleases me nonetheless.
  • Did I mention it only cost me $50?  It’s not exploitation if it’s voluntary, right?

Anyway, this has been a great experience for him, worth every penny even if it had cost twice as much (shhh!), and I am thus feeling a tad less guilty for not arranging more play dates with his friends from school this summer.  I don’t know why arranging play dates is such an ordeal for me.  I thought I’d gotten past most of my social anxiety, what with getting older and taking more drugs, but I still dread making phone calls to people I don’t know and asking them if it’s okay for our offspring to get together.  Wow, I just made it sound kind of sick.  No wonder I’m nervous!  Anyway, I suspect that I’d approach the calls with less trepidation if MB were less inclined to make friendships exclusively with children whose parents/guardians are a) first-generation immigrants and/or b) hard-of-hearing.  I don’t have a problem making the first move, as it were, if the person on the receiving end can hold up her/his end of the conversation.  It’s very difficult for me to carry on a conversation all by myself, especially when there’s another person there cramping my style.  I overthink these things, I know.  And then I get resentful because my mother didn’t arrange play dates for me when I was six years old.  I have a hard enough time arranging my own social life.  The stress of organizing four additional persons’ social lives is overwhelming.

Where was I?  Oh yes, Cool Kids Camp.  It’s been an interesting week because it’s been raining again.  Why not?  It’s Oregon in July, what else is it going to do?  Someone plans an outdoor activity and the Rain Gods are summoned.  Our own family is culpable for this current round of unseasonable weather, as Sugar Daddy reserved this week to build the play structure in the back yard.  Well, never mind.  He’ll just have to do it when we get back from vacation.

Yes, we’re leaving Monday for California.  Not coincidentally, Monday is also the day that the sunshine is supposed to return to Oregon.  I don’t know about the rest of you, but I go to California to escape the rain, not the sunshine.  I can’t help but feel that the trip is somewhat wasted if it isn’t going to coincide with poor weather back home.  Fortunately, the weather in California is supposed to be nice next week also, even in Santa Cruz, which is one of our destinations.  Unless we accidentally bring some rain with us.  That’s been known to happen.

Another documented phenomenon on past California trips is our habit of getting deathly ill upon arrival.  The reason SD does this is clear:  he can’t afford to get sick while he’s working, so he waits until vacation.  Why the kids and I also do it is something of a mystery.  But the pattern holds.  We go to California, we get sick for a few days.  I don’t think we’ve ever gone there and not had that happen.  By contrast, our family vacations to the Oregon Coast, Chicago and St. Louis were all illness free.  COINCIDENCE?  Probably.  I’m hoping that by naming the threat, I can neutralize it.  You know, for a Western Christian, I’m surprisingly superstitious.  My true religious temperament is more compatible with voodoo.  I would be very at home with that type of faith practice.  But as I blogged yesterday, it’s a little late for that.

Anyway, so I’m going to be on vacation for the next two weeks–or as I like to call it, “vacation.”  Let’s just say I’ll be touring with my company and eating out a lot.  Try not to miss me too much.  And if you know any neat tricks with chicken entrails that will ensure good health while I’m gone, feel free to engage in them.

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