I’m on a bit of an outdoorsy kick lately. Give a girl a gun and all of a sudden she’s tryna become Bear Grylls and shit. Ok, maybe I
lie exaggerate. AJ and I were talking about going camping this weekend. It was probably my idea. So I’m all, oh, I better buy a tent and every other thing a human being could possibly need to go camping for one night. However, I learned an interesting thing about tents while researching them – a lot of them are effing tiny. Here’s the problem with that: T-Rexs are claustrophobic. I bet you didn’t know that, but it’s true. My number one fear is being buried alive. Alright, we’re getting off topic. Anyway, the tent search began.
Clearly Option #1 is not an option at all.
I was all set to become the proud owner of a
second home multi-room tent when AJ pointed out that it weighs 46 pounds and he would not, under any circumstances, be carrying that tent for me anywhere if I insisted on buying it. Rude.
Another critical quality of the tent was that I felt it should be one of the pop-up kinds. I could just imagine myself messing with hammers and pins and strings and flying into a fit of rage out there in the wilderness.
So I went with Option #3 and it is glorious. Not that I assembled it myself. I let AJ and Blake do that. But the point is, I could have, dammit. And good news! It only weighs 23 pounds so I can carry it myself. Just not up a mountain or anything, because let’s be serious,
that’s what boyfriends are for I’ll just sleep in a hammock in the summer.
Tragically, the epic Florence camping experience got monsooned out. It’s not even like we just wimped out. We would probably have been washed away in a flash flood. Instead, we decided to brave the Florence night life scene. Kristen even came out to hang out with us. We ended up at a place called Creek Ratz. FYI, a creek rat is someone raised in Murrells Inlet/the Florence vicinity. And yes, whatever you’re thinking is exactly what it was like. It’s known for having pretty good bands and thanks to my expert table scouting/friend making abilities, we were able to grab a table. When we first walked in, I noticed a guy wearing an Ultramarathon shirt. Obviously I was like “omg, that guy needs to be my best friend.” Except then he turned around and yelled in the general vicinity of the entire bar “I NEED A BEER!” Then he saw me gawking in disbelief, waved, and then proceeded to lick his finger and begin rubbing his nipple. You know. Like any reasonable person would do.
By the time the band took the stage, the guy had basically lost it. The band had the misfortune of having a fairly attractive female guitarist/bass/fiddle player who was pretty legit. I bet that poor girl rued the day she picked up an instrument for the first time.
The man ran right up to the stage and then began bowing down in front of her while the band was playing. He then switched to pointing at the girl, looking back at the crowd, and shouting “THAT GIRL IS HOT!” Next up was the air guitar, followed closely by the nipple rub. But then came the granddaddy of them all – the Pelvic Thrust. That’s right. That happened. I wish we had gotten a picture. Turns out, the gentlemen of Florence do not take too kindly to this behavior and Andy (as he was apparently named) had to be forcibly removed from the bar after one and a half songs. He then tried to pick a fight with a
possible skinhead man who was giant, bald and wearing a Harley jacket. You know. The kind of person you definitely want to punch you in the face.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch, we were similarly enthralled by the super aggressive attire of the lead singer, who is probably about 50, if I had to guess. Don’t get me wrong. She’s in good shape. But my God, I don’t even know where you begin to look for a mini skirt that short. I SAW SO MUCH THIGH. My eyes are forever unclean.
We did our best to avoid eye contact with the lead singer, tried (and failed) to get drunk, and yelled “FREE BIRD” as often as possible. The band actually asked us if we knew the words to Free Bird. Bitch, of course I do. After leaving the bar, we played quarters and hung out for awhile before eventually falling asleep, only to be woken up at 5:30am by a shouting match between Randell and Dar debating the merits of the war in Iraq, which is just my kind of drunken conversation. Especially at 5:30 am. Especially when screamed.
On Sunday we did what any good Southerners with some time to kill would do, aka ate fried chicken and went to a gun and knife show. I will tell you that 3 out of 5 of us bought guns. Know why? Because we’re stimulating the damn economy, that’s why. So maybe I’m the proud new owner of a rifle, maybe I’m not (don’t worry Mom and Dad, IF I am, which I’m not saying I am, it was used and I got a good deal and I really do promise to stop buying guns/other things I can’t really afford). AJ bought a shotgun and Blake bought a 9mm and then we all went shooting out on Emily’s farm. What a delightful weekend. And yes. I obviously wore camo.
In unrelated news, I also voted for my ex-boyfriend Mitt Romney this weekend. Our breakup is a long story but basically AJ got jealous. Anyway, as you may have seen, my ridiculous state voted for Newt Gingrich instead. He looks like an elf, or maybe Satan. Anyway, RDub sent me a link to a great blog today that precisely sums up why I don’t like Newt Gingrich – because he’s always judging. And that’s my damn job.
People in other states, please vote for my ex-boyfriend Mitt Romney. He’s pretty sad about our breakup right now and he could really use the support. Thanks in advance.