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Airing My Dirty Laundry by Jackie Papandrew Blackberry or Bust When I say “camping,” I mean, of course, camping in the civilized way practiced by middle-aged city dwellers with tender backsides and uncompromising hygiene standards. That’s how my family camped recently, renting an RV and heading out across Colorado, stopping in the shadow of Pike’s Peak. This mighty mountain, named after the explorer Zebulon Pike, was one of the first landmarks seen by settlers as they made their way across the prairie. Many of them painted “Pike’s Peak or Bust” on their canvas wagons. We set out with a similar sense of adventure in our modern-day covered wagon. And while early pioneers had to contend with problems like hunger and disease, we faced our own challenges on the very first day. For starters, there was the peril of parking. Mountains have an annoying lack of level space, and we were required to back into our assigned spot. To accomplish this task, my husband and I assumed the traditional vehicle-reversal gender roles – he stayed behind the wheel, gear in reverse and window down, while I stood outside ready to gently guide his efforts. But he pushed too hard on the gas, which caused me to screech “Stop!” which caused him to press too hard on the brakes, which resulted in a series of loud crashes inside the RV. This cycle was repeated over and over for about an hour, eventually degenerating into an ugly exchange that began with my mate questioning my navigational skills and ended with me snarling “Why don’t you learn how to drive?” Then, determined to salvage our recreational experience, we began preparations to encounter nature, finally stepping into the great outdoors to hike. We were slathered in sunscreen, infested with insect repellent and, to ward off boredom, encumbered with a variety of electronic gadgets. Our children were armed with IPODs and, in case of battery failure, backup MP3s. Each of us carried a cell phone. And my husband had his Blackberry, or as I affectionately call it, his Crackberry. He would obsessively check his signal strength, calling out the number of bars on the device in moods that ranged from ecstatic (“I’ve got five beautiful bars, baby!”) to dejected (“How can I only have one stinkin’ bar?”) as we followed the trail around the mountain. My spouse saw nothing of the glories of nature until nature took a hand and steered him into a tree. “Put that silly thing away!” I snapped as he rubbed his bruised forehead. “We’re camping!” Reluctantly, he complied, slipping the portable pestilence into the holster on his belt. The terrain grew steeper, dropping off precipitously on one side. The woods seemed to close in on us. Striding along in the lead, I thought of pioneer tales I’d read of attacks by packs of ravenous wolves. Then we came to a clearing, and I squinted into the blinding sun, barely able to see the trail. That’s when I looked into the furry face of death – a menacing form ahead, with pointy ears and, I could have sworn, a pair of fangs. I did what any self-respecting woman would do. “Wolf!” I screamed. “Wolf!” And my man scrambled up the trail toward me, with every intention, I’m sure, of rescuing his damsel in distress. But suddenly, he stopped and swirled around, clutching at his waist. Just as I was undoubtedly about to be ripped to shreds by razor-sharp teeth, the one to whom I’d pledged my troth was frantically searching the ground for his fallen Blackberry. Abandoned to my fate, I closed my eyes, but the satisfying sound of shattering plastic reached my ears. Then I felt a cold nose touch my hand. Nervously, I opened one eye and looked down at a friendly German Shepherd whose owners were just catching up to him. Noticing our ashen faces, they inquired for our welfare. I assured them we were fine. My spouse said not a word, only stared mournfully down at the broken pieces of his busted PDA on the rocks below. Then he glared at me. “In the sun, it looked just like a wolf,” I stuttered, pointing at the dog now disappearing with his owners down the trail. “I’m sorry about your Crack…er…I mean Blackberry.” He just shook his head, too traumatized to speak. After an appropriate period of mourning and after allowing our children, who’d collapsed in helpless laughter at their parents’ expense, to regain their composure, we headed back to our motor home in strained silence, having had quite enough nature for one day.
Reading Airing My Dirty Laundry, by award-winning writer Jackie Papandrew, is like diving into a hamper full of hilarity. Jackie airs out her rather soiled sense of humor about everything under the sun – from the comfort of granny panties to the agony of aging gums and sagging, er, gams. She tickles the funny bone with tales of troublesome teenagers, the trials of testosterone and using Formula 409 as foreplay. Jackie's writing has won awards from the Florida Magazine Association, the American Association of Business Press, and the Florida Freelance Writers Association, among others. Her humor columns have appeared in a variety of publications, including the Chicken Soup for the Soul series and the Cleveland Plain Dealer. Please visit JackiePapandrew.com to read additional humor columns and to sign up for a FREE email version of Airing My Dirty Laundry. You can contact Jackie at Jackie@JackiePapandrew.com.
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