Well we are half way there.
I have been living in the trailer down by the river for more than two weeks and much to my surprise I am still alive.
Oh, do not get me wrong. My back still aches every single day, I am still unaccustomed to warmish quick showers and no TV for football on the weekend was a near death experience.
However, I know I must make the most of this trailer adventure so I am finding other ways to keep my mind occupied.
For example, I challenged myself Saturday afternoon to reorganize the trailer’s “kitchen” to make some room on the countertop, which is the size of a Mickey Mouse record player. (Kids, a record player is this fandangled contraption which played music from a vinyl disc).
I started with trying to fit as much food in the fridge as possible. At first glance, the fridge looked respectable, it is almost the height of a bar fridge. When you open the fridge, however, you see it has the depth of a shoebox. It is tough to jam a jelly jar onto the top shelf let alone a jug of milk.
After cramming the last of the Grey Poupon into the fridge — I can only rough it so far — I leaned up against the fridge door just long enough to screw it shut.
Then I moved on to the cupboards.
It was like trying to heard cats. Whenever I pushed that box of Raisin Bran into the cupboard the napkins would burst out the side. I would hold the napkins with one had, prop the cereal with my head and the quickly try to shut the cupboard door.
After knocking myself out twice I resorted to other solutions.
“Honey, where is the Raisin Bran?”
“It’s in the back seat of your car!”
“The dishes?”
“In the trunk beside the milk! Duh.”
Buoyed by my success in reorganizing the living space within the trailer, I was determined to have our first outdoor campfire. Besides, I still had to find somewhere to put the crackers, marshmallows, smokies, ketchup and bread.
Really, this is what camping was all about. Sitting enjoying the outdoors by the campfire and just relaxing. I could not wait — s’mores, a weiner roast and perhaps a cold beer. (Oh, I found room for that in the fridge). It would be a great evening.
It was indeed a storybook evening for certain, if the author was Stephen King.
There I was cold and wet huddled in front of the trailer trying to keep the fire burning as the rain drizzled down my face and soggy hot dog bun in hand.
All that was missing was the gloomy music.
The villain in this nightmare would have peaked around the tree and ran away in utter horror after he saw a battered, bruised and feral looking man clinching what looked to be a frightening looking hot dog stick in his hand.
