Three student days left of school. We teachers are all tired, cranky, and sick of the mass epidemic breakout of PDA. (Seriously, you are going to see this person next hour. Do you REALLY need to make out NOW? In FRONT of me? I have very sensitive gag reflexes, and I am NOT afraid to puke in public. Especially on teenagers.)

Anyway, more later on this subject, but here’s a great visual demonstration on the general mood of a teacher at the end of the year. By the way, the cat would represent a student, in case there’s any doubt. (Oh, and just ignore the stupid, peaceful sentiment in the end.)

Camping—the great American pastime—especially on three day weekends. I tried to find the percentage of Americans who camp over Memorial Day, but came up with nothing. But here’s my statistic: A whole stinking lot of ‘em—that’s how many citizens of the US of A are camping right now.

Seventy-five people from my church, including friends and friends of friends, are camping right now. I abstained. Gave them the shut out. Exercised my God-given free will and elected not to go.

And though I’m now a little sad that half the state of Arkansas is camping together and no doubt having a grand old time without me, I know it is for the best.

I. Do NOT like to CAMP.

There.

I said it.

I don’t.

I’ve done my time. Tangoed with mosquitoes. Burnt marshmallows over a roaring fire. Got steamed like a bag of rice while sleeping in a tent in the summer heat. Or held on for dear life as the wind swayed my camper in a storm, and prayed that God’s glorious surrounding pines wouldn’t smash my shelter like a Coke can.

My friends and church-mates go camping every year. And part of their pre-camping preparations include harassing me for days at a time about my lack of participation. We campless ones are an unspoken minority in this land of the free. I will not tolerate it anymore. Campless ones, unite! My name is Jennifer Jones, and I do not like to camp. I don’t like to rough it. And I don’t like peeing over a hole. Naysayers, you harassers of innocent non-campers, stand down. We will not take it anymore.

Since I am not partying it up lakeside, I had the time to compile a list of reasons you, too, can use if you find yourself discriminated against. Use them with my blessing and sympathy.

Excuses to give for not camping: (For maximum effectiveness, please utter statements below with fierce face and stern voice.)

1. “The existence of Big Foot is still up in the air, and given the fact that your last boyfriend/girlfriend kind of resembled him, I really don’t want to risk it. He/She could be following your scent.”

2. “When campsite toilets flush and have soap, then I’ll consider it.”

3. “Sleeping in a sleeping bag is just an open invitation to skunks to invade the tent. Spray me now, while I’m wrapped up like a burrito and rendered immobile.”

4. “I have no place to plug in my flatiron.”

5. “You want me to bathe where???”

6. “Because I’d rather stay home and read___________.” (Insert name of really big, intimidating book here. I recommend: War and Peace, The Odyssey, the complete works of Shakespeare, or The Bible—in Hebrew.)

7. “No, I don’t want a hot dog. I know what they’re made of.”

8. “The Israelites camped for 40 years. I owe it to them, as their descendent, not to make that 40 years and one night. Newsflash: The promised land was found. And it now has electricity.”

9. I find the quality of toilet paper in the Johnny-on-the-Spot abrasive. I insist on two-ply!”

10. “Do you hear that noise? That’s the sound of a mosquito giving me West Nile. Are you happy now?”

You get the idea. Come up with a few on your own, but take heart, shunners of the camp ground. It is OKAY to not want to camp. It’s OKAY not to WANT to sleep with rocks sticking in unmentionable places. It’s OKAY not to want to wake up in the middle of the night, sweating in your Artic-ready sleeping bag, convulsing in a panic because you can’t unzip yourself and get free to breathe.

We are the Non-Campers. And we will be silent victims no more.

Jordin Sparks won American Idol. I will be fine. I will get over it. She was my pick initially. But then I crossed over to the Melinda camp. Mel’s just so humble and such the power house. She will be fine though, I’m sure.

Jordin is only seventeen. They only say that every thirty seconds on Idol. I think it was their secret signal to Ryan Seacrest—a reminder that he couldn’t hit on her. “Wow—and you’re only seventeen.” (Hands off Seacrest.)

What was up with Kelly Clarkson’s outfit? WHO dresses her? Did you see her on the CMA’s? Same thing. Cover that girl up. If you don’t have biceps and abs, you can’t wear those barely there shirts. You just can’t. And if you have even a small amount of flabalanche, you can’t wear super low riders. I may be dumb enough to paint my bedroom John Deere green, but I know the
basics of clothing. And rule number one: If it jiggles—cover it up.

I finished the book New Moon this week. Pretty good. Longer than it needed to be. But it’s a good resource for all those girls out there struggling with the day to day complexities of dating a vampire. Come on. You know who you are.

I learned: don’t get him too mad, don’t get too attached to the wildlife around you, you will always eat more cheeseburgers than him (which will make you feel fat), and don’t think you can beat him at Jeopardy—at least in the history category. If he’s lived a few centuries, he’s gonna be all smart and stuff. “Queen Victoria? Yeah, I knew her…”

Some things were not addressed in the book though, and I thought that was very irresponsible of the author. So this is my public service announcement to all the girls out there dating those vampy boys. Taunting him with garlic will not amuse him. Throwing holy water on him is not a good way to win a fight. He will never be tan, and no amount of Banana Boat is going to change that. Love him for himself—his fangs, his questions like “So, are bell bottoms in this century or not?,” and the fact that he’s the living dead and won’t show up in your prom picture.

Have a good weekend! And if you’re totally bored, I just noticed my little interview with Novel Journey is up! Check it out. You can even win a copy of In Between. And no, Mom, you are not eligible. You already have like twelve.

How Do You Know When You’re Addicted to Diet Coke?

When you are out.
You’ve double, triple checked the fridge.
Yup, I’m out.
Open fridge door again to see if:
A. An empty fridge was just a bad dream.
B. Diet Coke has magically appeared since the last peek.
C. God had mercy and delivered my manna

No Diet Coke.

Next option. Thinking…thinking…

The store, three miles down the road is too far. Sonic? I’d have to wait. Those car hops have no sense of urgency.

So I get in the car and drive to the nearest golf course. Park across the street. Sprint across said street, scaring squirrels and other woodland creatures playing in the road. (Think to yourself: Huh. Why is it I’m only capable of running fast when I need food, throat burning drink, or my body is on fire?)

Toss change into vending machine. Change that I spent five minutes collecting from various sources—the couch, the car, the neighbor kid.

Change spits right back out.

No! I try again.

Change goes in.

And falls out.

Run back across the street to car. Yelling. Scare old lady golfer in high waisted shorts. But don’t care—because frankly her outfit and fashion violations scare me too.

Yell some more.

Rummage through purse for a dollar bill.

Find a ten.

Sob for twenty seconds.

Press my face against car window, pleading with my eyes at every passing car to have mercy on me.

Merciless heathens pay me no mind and mock me with their refusal to make eye contact.

Take one last look through purse.

And the heavens open up.

The angels sing.

My heart begins to beat again.

Because there, in the last place it should’ve been, next to the measuring tape and half of a two week old Snickers, is a crisp, beautiful dollar bill.

And that, my friends, is what I call a great Saturday.

Dear Cats,

It’s time we had a little talk.

When you see one of these:

It is not enough that you stare it down for ten hours straight. It’s not enough that you corner it in the bathroom for me to come pick up. I don’t want to pick it up. That’s what YOU’RE here for. Um…who’s related to the Tiger in this house? Pretty sure it’s not me.

What exactly is it you do to earn your keep here?

Monday I go into the bathroom to find Miller perched on the toilet seat. I got excited—maybe he’s gonna be one of those cats that wants to use the toilet. Not so. Five hours later I go back in the bathroom and there he remains. Still sitting. Still staring.

I move the bathroom scale out a bit to stand on, and out scrambles a lizardy looking thing. Like I needed anymore proof that jumping on the scales is scary and can induce you to pansy-girl screams.

Because I’m all humane and stuff, I go get these to use to catch and release the salamander thingie:

I throw perched cat out, shut the door, and fearlessly pursue the dragon thing with a cup and plate. (Okay…um, maybe not fearlessly. I might’ve been chanting “Please God, don’t let it eat me. Don’t let it bite my face off.”)

I have him cornered and then the door opens.

And in walks Miller.

My cat, who frequently forgets where his own food bowl, is guilty of walking into walls, and who if he were human would be considered “special”, opened the freakin’ door. My cat OPENED A DOOR! He doesn’t even have claws. By the way, Miller, I am onto you. Your six year dumb routine is OVER. You can clean your own litter box from now on. (And I offer up exhibit A as evidence of his usual level of intellect)

So the door opens and out goes the snaky thing with feet. Right into my office.

I would like to include a picture of my office, but pride won’t let me. Let’s just say right now it looks like it was a victim of Katrina AND the Kansas tornadoes. So there was NO finding that slithery dude.

Forty-eight hours later, Miller is STILL on watch—but now in my closet. (That’s a good feeling), and I have yet to find the little reptile. I know he’s in here somewhere though. Waiting for me…

Cats, you have GOT to start pulling your weight around here. I give and I give and I give. Is reptile-catching too much to ask? No, I don’t think so. You SO deserve off-brand kibbles.

And Miller—tonight is trash night. If you can open the bathroom door all by your claw-less, thumb-less self, you can darn well take the trash out.

Jen

And on a side note—I am grateful to the British Army that Prince Harry will not be serving in Iraq, as promised. He has been forbidden. Thank God all my letters and calls got through. I knew my threats of a hunger strike would work. So thanks to me, Prince Har will not be in danger in the Middle East. And Britain? If you would like to take my cat as a replacement, you may. Apparently he’s got skills.