aliens ... with guns (for real)

Ok.  So I'm sitting here with the girlfriend and we're talking about camping with her parents in Montana.  And I'm like, fine, I can't wait.  That's good.  Haven't been camping since last summer, and I can't wait, and we're all equipment-ed up, because we're both camping-equipment whores. So. we're all set.  And I've cleared it with my Chair:  he says it's ok to quit my job after I get back instead of before. He's a good boss.  (Actually, there's no way I can clear out my office before then anyway.  Just want you to know I'm not a shirker or anything).

So.  Everybody's schedule finally fits.  Except the girlfriend's kitties need a good sitter.  But surely that'll work out.  Right?

So.  We're going.  Or rather, we're talking about going.  And I've never been to Montana.  But I hear it's beautiful and somewhat wild.

And she says that when camping with her folks each person makes a meal.  And she tells me what I should make.  And I think, you're joking, right?  Sephardi food isn't for camping.  But whatever,  it's my default setting, and if they like my yaprakas maybe they'll like me too.  Okay.  I can do that.  And we'll haul the ingredients all the way from California.  And she says I should make my grandpa's— well, it's a secret.  But I'm not sure you can get Bulgarian feta while camping in Montana, so that's gotta be packed up too.

I wanted them to come to us.  Big Sur. Pfieffer Beach.  You know the drill.  One of the most beautiful places in the world that's close by and drop dead gorgeous.

But there's nothing to kill around there.

Huh?

There's nothing to kill, and the timing I suggested was just right for killing pheasants and maybe grouse or some kinda upland bird season, something like that.

And I thought, well shit.  Every lunar cycle of the year has something to kill if you're an outdoorsman.

And the girlfriend says, I can't wait until you have this conversation with my dad when we're camping.

And I say, well no the fuck way.

Because there's an argument to be made for being able to hunt and fish your food all year round.  And I admire it.  It's one of those post-apocalyptic skills that I wish I had, but don't.

Right this minute, the girlfriend is firing up the smoker and filleting this enormous (wild) salmon. Great for the Atkins diet.  That's what Californians say.

But here's the sad part.  We bought this beautiful salmon at the fish market in well-appointed yuppy Montclair 'Village.'  (I'm not sure when Montclair became a quaint village.  When I was a kid, it was just rich, not adorable).

And now I'm feeling guilty about purchased meat, when there's a killer in the family who can supply the needs of a rather large extended family all year round, right?

This is not how I grew up.

You want meat?

You call the kosher butcher.

And he sends the butcher's son around to deliver the lox or brisket to your house so that the son can catch your daughter's eye, and maybe there's a shittach down the road.

That's kosher meat for you.

My father, the tzaddik, never killed anything in his life.  And while Mrs Tzaddik was good at throwing things, she never killed anything either.  Or certainly not something you could eat.

I think this is all the reason I tried to be a vegetarian.  But then there's Atkins.  And you'd end up living on eggs and cheese pretty much.

I've decided I'm ok with all the killing, when accompanied by eating.  And I'm in awe of the skills required.

But once, just once, I'm hoping there's an off season for everything on earth that can be shot or fished or snared or whatever.  And that I can get the girlfriend's parents camping California style.  In my beautiful Big Sur, with a stride down Pfeiffer Beach, with nothing, nothing for miles around to kill but time.

god forbid you should have a good time

Does this happen to you? It happens to me every single time — and I can't seem to ever remember that it does. And then (for some reason) I'm actually surprised by it. And then mad at myself for being surprised. Because (after all) I should have expected it. It happens every time, right?

The point being that I should just never take actual vacations. Not even a weekend's worth. And definitely not at my favorite place in the world (apart from the Sahara), and that would be Big Sur.

This time it was a camping trip with the new girlfriend. I'd made reservations for this camping spot long before I'd even met the new girlfriend, that's how determined I was to take a couple days off.  Don't get me wrong, I DID bring work with me. Papers to grade, because it's already that season. So. I felt pretty protected from god forbid having too much of a good time.

Unfortunately, I had a good time.

More than a good time.

And when the weekend was over and I got home — there was a flood in the garage. And no, I won't describe it.

So. Instead of taking that well-needed post-camping shower, I got out the good plunger and worked at the drain in the garage.  After about an hour, the flood subsided, but not enough to proclaim it cured.  After all, this has happened before. After a trip to Paris (for work, of course) and some other trip I don't remember, except that I had fun. Fun being the operative word that brings down the waterworks chez moi.

I'd been warned the last time or two that the sewer pipes (like the water line before it) was in far from stellar condition.  The house is, after all, over a hundred years old.  The pipes may or may not be original, but they're old. And ceramic. And broken. They've been at war with the tree roots out front for decades. I've observed their war up close and personal when I had to replace my water line.

So. Was I surprised at the diagnosis? No. Sticker shock, yes.  Half my savings, down the drain — literally.

Is there a point at which everything that can go wrong will already have done so, and I can go away for two days of camping in the dirt and smoke and pretend I'm relaxing, and not come back to some portion of my 1907 cottage having a little shit fit?

Is it just bad timing? Am I unconsciously going on vacation exactly at the time my house most needs my attention? Is my house really a big furry cat who needs to make a fuss every single time I go away? Or am I supposed to go away more often in order to train it?

I'm pretty sure that if I'd had a crappy time, I would have come home to an intact house.  I'm pretty sure it's the fun my house is complaining about.  I'm pretty sure. But I just can't prove it. The experiments are just too costly.

All I know, is that next time I plan a trip just for fun, I'm going to sneak off and not tell my house at all.

Except that now, with a broken sewer line, there's not going to be a next time any time soon.

This has all happened before. And it will all happen again.  Just when we're the most decadent. The cylons attack.