How many days?

Is it possible to wake up cold and sweating at the same time? Even when you are not going through menopause? Well, that is how I was greeted Monday morning. I slept horribly, and not only because one of the campers woke me up at 2:30am to go to the bathroom. (This happened three out of the six nights I was there by the way.) I asked myself if it was child abuse to limit water in the sweltering heat. (No, I did not limit her water. Yes, I considered telling her that bears come out around 2am looking for tasty children.)

The day started with morning activities. These included Orthodox Life, arts and crafts, and swimming lessons. I had made an under-the-table agreement with my co-counselor that if she led all of the water activities, I would take cabin duty every night. What do I care about going to bed early? Let the youngsters have their fun and stay up late, as long as I didn’t have to get into mucky lake water. Unfortunately, when I ran this past the Water Safety Instructor, he had other ideas. With so many campers, they needed both of us to assist.

As we approached the water on day one, I looked over to see the Media Director. (Dammit, was that kid everywhere?) If you are familiar with my blog, you know that I have very little vanity. You have seen the terrible pictures of myself I have posted in the past. But this was going too far. I walked over to the poor kid, looked him directly in the eye and said, “There better not be one picture of me on the camp website in my swimsuit.”

“I got you,” he said, and nodded slowly. Honestly, I don’t care if I scared him or not.

Swim lessons were a disaster with various 8-year-olds crying and clinging to me and not wanting to go under water and thinking they were drowning. After about 15 minutes I was told I could take the criers to the shore and we were done. I happily got out of the water to dry off. Except…I could feel an itch on my leg. I looked down to see something black with a little blood on the back of my calf.

LEECH!!

Oh my gosh, could this camp hell get any worse? The only positive was that this was the moment I realized that I was going to turn this whole experience into a blog and so I better start taking notes on this nightmare.

Turns out the lake had leeches. The directors had taken steps to clear the lake by hiring “Raw Meat Robby,” a local who apparently did this for a living. He was a native of northern Michigan who showed up in his pickup truck, dog in the back, and dropped a bunch of raw meat in traps into the lake to catch the leeches. Yes, this really did happen. No, I don’t think he caught any. Yes, I still eat meat.

After swim lessons one of my little ones who had never been to camp before looked at me and said, “How many days?”

“How many days?” I repeated to her, confused. “Until what?”

“Until I go home.”

“Oh. Five,” I said. And then under my breath, “Same, girl. Same.”

Finally, we reached the end of the day. Just when I thought my responsibilities were over, I learned that a handful of the girls had never showered on their own before. Trying to manage ten girls to move quickly is hard enough; trying to do it with only five showers to work with and half of the girls not knowing what to do is unreasonable.

“Does everyone have a towel? Do you have clean underwear? Get the sand out of your hair! Wear shower shoes! Yes, you have to take a shower every day here! Listen, if you don’t let me comb your hair out I will NOT be around when your mom comes to pick you up!”

And that was just while we were in the cabin getting ready to walk to the bathroom. Then there was the shouting of instructions from outside the shower stall:

“Now shampoo?” one would yell.

“Yes, now shampoo!” I said as I undid the cap and squeezed it out on a hand that sprang out of the shower stall.

“Now conditioner?”

“Yes, now conditioner,” I said as I undid that cap and squeezed that out on another hand.

Finally, I got them all showered and fell into bed.

The next afternoon Franny came running up to me a little worried.

“Mom,” she said, “you’re going to have to do the Camper Save today.”

“Ok, ” I said,” what’s that?”

“It’s when they have a drill where they pretend a camper is missing and you have to go find them.”

“Ok,” I said again, not understanding her concern.

“Mom, you have to run really fast! Around the camp! There is a time limit!” I was insulted. How feeble did she think I was? Yes, it had been a few years since I worked out or run as a form of exercise, but it wasn’t like I couldn’t participate in a simple drill. Besides, this wasn’t a life or death situation. A camper wasn’t really lost. Quite frankly, I could barely get those girls to stop asking questions or give me some personal space, fat chance one was going to be away from me long enough to get lost.

Five minutes later my niece Melina approached me, looking very stressed. “Thea Sal,” (this is what she calls me), “you have to do the camper save today! You have to get out of it! Tell them you can’t do it!”

“Why?” I said, not quite getting why everyone was so freaked out.

“Because, you’re OLD!!”

It was actually very sweet of them to be concerned. I mean, if I was in their place at their age and one of my aunts had to run around a camp, I would have been concerned as well. On the flip side, I also would have wanted to watch it as I don’t think I ever saw any of them run before. Moms in the 80s didn’t really run for sport so it would have been entertaining.

When it was time, I headed down to the beach where the drill was supposed to begin. We were supposed to go in pairs to check various parts of the camp for the “missing camper,” which was actually a milk jug filled with sand. Initially, I was assigned to search the field, which was the farthest you could get from the beach. I would have had to run up an inclined path made of rocks, through the whole camp, past the driveway, and to the field. Suddenly my bravado went out the window. I looked at the kid in charge and said, “I’m 56. I am not running to the field.”

Honestly, as I recount these memories and my interactions with these poor young staff members, I am lucky I didn’t get written up for bullying.

I was instead assigned the lodge and some surrounding buildings. The timer went off and we all ran. I could go into the whole mess of how I searched my buildings and didn’t find Lost Camper, yadda yadda yadda, but the short version is…I forgot to check a building and Lost Camper died on my watch. Ironically, he was in the Infirmary. I argued that in real life a nurse should have been there to help him. But it was still a fail on my part.

By Saturday I was more than ready to go home. It was a hard week, but MDSC is still as magical as it ever was. I can still see that. But if I ever decide to go back, I will have it in writing that I will be working in the kitchen. And I definitely will NOT get into the lake.

aging, Being greek, humor, Uncategorized

Happy Camper?

This past summer, I revisited the Metropolis of Detroit Summer Camp (MDSC) for Orthodox youth that I had attended as a child and young adult. Starting at age seven, I would stay each summer for two weeks at this camp located in northern Michigan. I started sending my own kids there when they were in grade school, and for several years Teddy has been a lifeguard there. My sister, Melissa, and I have a deep love for MDSC. We had often spoken in recent years of going back as cooks so we could relive our youth (minus the swimming lessons and hiking through tick-infested forests). This year, the camp was severely short-staffed and was considering for the first time in their 75-year history of cancelling a couple of weeks of camp. As a result, Melissa and I decided to take the opportunity and go back as kitchen staff. Both our daughters were also going to be there as staff members. How fun would it be to go back to summer camp as an adult?

Not too fun it turns out.

The day we arrived at camp I was excited, but also a little nervous. As I arrived at check in, the director looked at me and said, “So you and your sister can decide which one of you is going to be a cook and which one is going to be a counselor.”

I’m sorry, what?

Apparently, they were so short-staffed that one of us was going to have to move to the junior girls (ages 7-10) cabin to be a counselor all week. There I was at a church camp, volunteering in an environment that helps to spread the word of God with selflessness and sacrifice, and all I wanted to say was, “I’m sorry, I came up here to hang out with my sister and bond over hamburgers and french fries, not watch a bunch of 8 year olds.” I went to find Melissa to discuss what we should do.

“I don’t care either way,” she said. “You decide.”

Being a counselor would mean going to swim lessons, doing arts and crafts, playing athletic games, and generally being a mom for a week. Cooking for 80 people would mean getting up at 6am, spending the day in a hot kitchen on my feet, and preparing food and doing the dishes. So, generally being a mom for a week. I chose counselor.

I chose poorly.

They placed me in a cabin built in the 1950’s with no ventilation or air. There were three sections: The left side was large, airy, and had real beds and mattresses. This is where Melissa and my daughter, Franny, were. The 10 junior girl campers were on the right side of the cabin in a similar room, but with bunk beds made of metal with thin mattresses.

My co-counselor, Emily (20 years old), and I were in a tiny, cramped, windowless, dark room between the two larger rooms, separated from the campers by a curtain. (Her name has been changed, not for privacy, but because we were at a Greek camp and if I use real names I am going to have to differentiate between Maria One, Maria Two and Maria Three and George the camper and George the counselor.) I was on a bottom bunk so low I couldn’t sit up without getting my hair caught in the metal spokes from the top bunk. The mattress was a three inch piece of foam I assume is similar to what they use in prisons. Oh, and did I mention the camp doesn’t have cell service? Everyone is supposed to give up their phone upon arrival, but I don’t think they dared ask me for mine after the bait and switch they pulled on me. But it didn’t matter anyway. The only way you could use your phone is if you could find out the secret wifi password, sneak to the top of the flagpole hill, stand in a certain spot, and make sure no one saw you doing it.

The embarrassment of being three decades older than the rest of the counselors happened almost immediately with the staff introductions. As your name is called, you are supposed to do a cute choreographed dance or chant with your co-counselor. This is adorable and fun if you are 20, not so great when you are 56. Emily and I decided to do a Disney channel spoof where we take the pretend wand and outline the Disney ear…and end in a crossed-arm-white-girls-trying-to-be-hip-hop stars pose. As you can see from the picture I was way off with my timing.

As if things couldn’t get worse, modern days have afforded the camp a Media Director. This position was filled by an adorable young man who spent his days going from activity to activity taking photos and uploading them to the camp website. Suddenly I felt sorry for celebrities who are constantly dodging the paparazzi. It is impossible to be “on” all day. You never knew when you were going to be in the background of a snapshot. I found out quickly that my “resting face” leaves me with little to no neck, and a chin that blends right into my sternum. I believe the clinical term for this ailment is referred to as “jowls.” (See pictures below.) By the way, when you look up the word “jowls” to make sure you are using it correctly, it directs you to pictures of Mastiffs and Great Danes.

The evening activity that day was a game of Gaga ball at the field. I am familiar enough with Gaga to know that I was not going to be able to match the energy and speed of the campers. I decided I would wait until they had a Wordle tournament or bird-identification test to show my real talents. I climbed into the pit, which I’m sure wasn’t a pretty sight. (Thank goodness the media director wasn’t around for that one.) Suddenly I had an idea.

“Hey,” I said to the closest kid to me, a boy around 10 years old. “If you cover me during this game I’ll get you an extra dessert tonight.”

God bless this child who spent the next ten minutes protecting me like I was a tribute in the Hunger Games. Every time the ball came near me, there he was, expertly deflecting it in another direction. This lasted the whole game until eventually it came down to him, me cowering behind him, and another counselor. Suddenly, my protector was out, and it was just me staring at a young man about 20 years old and the size of a tank. He gently rolled the ball toward me and hit my leg. That’s all it took.

I didn’t matter though, because at dinner that night I excitedly bragged to everyone that I got second place in Gaga ball while I discreetly took an extra piece of cake from the kitchen and handed it to my savior for the day.

And that was just day one.

If I wrote every crazy thing that happened it would be the length of a book, so I have split this blog up into two parts. I hope I have set the scene for you, because it’s going to be a bumpy ride. I am going to make you relive everything I experienced. It will be long. It will be hot. You will want to stop reading by day two. You will count down the days until it is over. Stay tuned next week for more escapades.

Uncategorized

Rite of Passage

If you are of a certain age, you may have already experienced the dreaded colonoscopy. Since I have a family history of colon cancer, I had my first one when I was 35 and have continued to have them regularly since then. As many people will tell you, the prep is usually worse than the actual colonoscopy. I mean, who wouldn’t want some alone time under a warm blanket, get in a fifteen minute power nap, and wake up to some Lorna Doones waiting for you?

So a couple of weeks ago Ted was due for the second colonoscopy of his life. The first one was five years ago. Back then, after the nurse had taken him back for the procedure, I had run out to get myself a coffee. When I returned, the entire waiting room was looking at me as I walked in.

“Are you Samantha?” someone asked. “They have been calling for you!”

Apparently, Ted had had the quickest colonoscopy known to man, and the nurses had been looking for me for several minutes while I was gallivanting around town. I sheepishly walked back hiding my iced mocha behind my back so I could tend to the patient.

Side note: Lots of my stories include me showing up somewhere late because I was getting a Starbucks. I almost missed the beginning of my son’s high school graduation because I was getting a drink, and by the time I arrived there weren’t any parking spots left. I had to do the walk of shame up the bleachers, squeezing myself into my seat as “Pomp and Circumstance” played.

As I said earlier, the colonoscopy preparation is usually worse than the actual procedure. First, you have to fast for a whole day. Now, that might not seem hard, but let me tell you…it IS!! Going a whole day without food is not easy. By about mid-day I am usually wondering how those people who have been stranded in the wilderness or lost on a raft at sea made it for days on end without anything to eat. I become very sympathetic to those rugby players who resorted to eating their friends after their plane crashed. Then, after not eating for twelve hours, you have to drink the most disgusting liquid ever created in the history of man. Over the years, advancements in medicine have helped to create more palatable potions to help you expel everything in your body, but apparently my doctor is old-school. He still likes the old standard: a slightly gelatinous, never-fully-cold-enough, faintly salty fluid. Just thinking of it makes me gag. And of course, there is a time constraint where you have to drink around 54 gallons of this stuff in an hour.

And then comes the real injustice of the day.

Just when you are saying to yourself, “I don’t think this stuff is working,” you suddenly need to make a beeline to the bathroom, shoving all people, dogs and furniture out of the way so you can get in there in time. And there you will stay off and on (literally) for the next 8 hours or so.

As Ted prepared for his procedure, Franny and I were business as usual that day. Now, a nicer wife would have been supportive and maybe had a bland dinner or eaten in secret so as not to make things worse for their spouse. However, that is not me. And this is because of an incident that happened during my very first colonoscopy many years ago.

Ted was invited out to dinner with some work colleagues. I may have been invited, (I honestly don’t remember), but I do remember telling him to just go, that I would rather have some privacy than have him stay with me and miss out on the dinner. When he got home that night, he had a huge piece of delicious chocolate cake with him. One of his coworkers had ordered it for me and sent it home with Ted, telling him that he hoped it all went well for me in the morning. I put it in the fridge, looking forward to eating it the next day.

The next day after I got home, I took a nap and rested a bit. I came downstairs to dig into that chocolate cake…and saw it wasn’t there.

“Ted,” I asked, “where is my cake?” It had been less than 24 hours. What could have happened to it?

“I ate it,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

Readers, I don’t need to go into what happened next, but it was on par with when he mentioned he was “tired and hungry” mid-way through my 16-hour labor with Teddy.

This is a legendary story in our house. And this is why Franny and I didn’t feel bad getting Panera for dinner.

The next day we drove to the clinic where Ted was having his colonoscopy and parked. Right before we got out of the car, he shut off the engine and turned to me. (It is important to mention here that Ted is a bit of a hypochondriac and highly suggestive. If we have chicken for dinner and several hours later I mention that I think maybe that chicken was actually a few days older than I thought, he will immediately get a stomachache. If I have a cough one day he will wake up with a worse cough the next day. If he goes to the doctor for standard check-up and the doctor orders routine blood work, Ted will tell you the “doctor is very concerned and is ordering blood work.”) So I braced myself for what was coming as he looked at me very seriously.

“Now, I don’t want to be on any life support or hoses. I have a one million dollar life insurance policy. Make sure you talk to our lawyer if anything happens.”

“YOU’RE HAVING A ROUTINE COLONOSCOPY!” I shouted. “The worst thing that’s going to happen is someone is going to eat your chocolate cake! I’ve had four colonoscopies and we have not once talked about my final wishes!”

He was not receptive to this response.

Thankfully, all went well. I stayed in the crowded waiting room so as not to get yelled at again. Ted got the all clear. And I didn’t have to execute his DNR.

I just wish I had known about that life insurance policy beforehand…

aging, fashion, humor, Taylor Swift, Uncategorized

The Eras Tour (Samantha’s Version)

Unless you’ve been living under a rock, you are aware of the phenomenon that is the Taylor Swift Eras Tour. I was lucky enough to be able to attend her concert with my niece Natalie when the show came to Chicago.

First came the outfit planning. I can honestly say that I spent more time trying to figure out what I was going to wear to this concert than I did to my nephew’s wedding, which was occurring the following weekend. For that one person out there who isn’t aware, there was a whole thing about which Era/Album you were going to represent via your outfit. This concert was not just a concert, it was a collective event for Swifties.

I made the mistake of telling a young teacher at work that I was unprepared and stressed and might just have to channel the Evermore Era and wear a flannel shirt. Not as cool or sexy as the black biker shorts and bralette she was going to be wearing from the Reputation Era, but at least I would be comfortable. When she responded “That’s OK, that’s what my mom is wearing,” I realized I had reached an ultimate low. I mean, I know I am a mom, and I know I am old enough to be HER mom, but I still didn’t want to be reminded that I was going to be DRESSING like a mom.

Add that to the fact that this was early June and I get sweaty just by telling an exciting story, I decided to forgo the flannel shirt and wear pink and represent the Lover Era.

Natalie came into town the night before and we set to work on our friendship bracelets. Apparently, there is a line in one of Taylor’s songs about friendship bracelets. Not a whole song, or a song title, or an album title, just ONE LINE about making friendship bracelets, and the next thing you know we’re all furiously pulling out our bead-making kits from the 6th grade. I mean, Nena had some great lines in her songs, but you didn’t see me showing up to her concert in 1983 with 99 red balloons did you?

As soon as we arrived at Soldier Field Natalie insisted on getting in a line longer than Peter Pan’s Flight at Disney World so we could get “merch.” (this is what you call over-priced t-shirts, posters, tote bags, etc.) You can get the same stuff online but it is not the same as the experience of waiting in a long line with others who have the same obsession as you. One hour later when we were three spots closer, they closed down the booth because they had run out of all the merch. One thousand disappointed females in sequins and cowboy boots and fedoras (I did not see ANY flannel shirts) dispersed to their seats.

As we wandered through the stadium looking for our seats, every once in a while a concert-goer walked up to Natalie and asked her to trade bracelets. This was the part of the night I had been waiting for. The trading had begun! What style bracelet would I get? Which one of my own was I willing to part with? I waited eagerly for the tweens and teens to ask me to trade.

Reader, it is a mystery why no one wanted to trade with a sweaty mom wearing heart-shaped glasses and a sparkle headband. Needless to say, I went home with the same bracelets I arrived with.

Finally, the moment arrived. Taylor appeared and the concert began. Almost immediately, she started singing her hit song, “Cruel Summer.” I was happily singing my heart out with thousands of teenage girls and their moms, when suddenly Natalie started screaming “THE FIRST BRIDGE! THE FIRST BRIDGE!” When I tell you I was confused, I mean that I was confused. But I didn’t have time to ask her because suddenly the part I had been practicing for weeks was upon us. I quickly FaceTimed Franny so she could witness me nailing the line.

“He looks up grinning like the Devil,” the entire crowd screamed, except for me who was screeching out the wrong words two beats behind everyone else, all while FaceTiming Franny and looking around Soldier Field for that damn bridge.

(And if you’re wondering, yes, I did learn later that the part of the song I had been trying to learn is called (surprise!) a “bridge.” Taylor is known for her bridges and this was the first one she sang at her show. Hence: THE FIRST BRIDGE! I mean, it all makes sense now.)

Side Note: Natalie of course nailed it. This is because Natalie knows every word to every song. And I don’t mean this as in “Natalie knows all the words” in a casual way. I mean this as in a very literal “I seriously think that she might know the entire catalog of Taylor Swift songs and that with her kind of photographic memory maybe I should take her to Vegas.”

As the concert progressed I realized there were many songs where special chants, claps and dances were added that everyone in the audience seemed to collectively know but me and probably some other middle-aged moms who are not on TikTok. But I was still trying to figure out the actual lyrics, never mind made up ones that the secret Swiftie society created. I imagine this would never happen in the 80’s before social media (except for maybe during Billy Idol’s Mony Mony where added phrases created much excitement to high school dances).

Finally, we got to the surprise songs. Taylor introduced the acoustic guitar song by telling the crowd, “This one is pretty new.” In fact, it had been released 9 days earlier. She played about three chords of it and Natalie began to literally shriek, “IT HITS DIFFERENT!!” And by shrieking, I mean imagine it is 1964 and the Beatles have just arrived. (For those of you reading who don’t know who the Beatles are, think One Direction). Why I was surprised Natalie was able to identify a song just released the previous week after only three notes, I don’t know. In a shocking turn of events, she also knew all the words.

After three hours of music, dancing, and singing, the concert ended. Whether you like Taylor Swift or not, no one can deny she puts on a heck of a show. It was phenomenal.

***Stay tuned for parts two and three of my Taylor Swift blog trilogy: One: I attend the Taylor Swift movie by arriving 3 1/2 hours early and end up initiating hesitant movie theater-goers to get on their feet and dance. Two: I spend $20 (again) to watch the movie on TV while wearing my Taylor Swift 1989 cardigan sweater. That hasn’t occurred yet, but knowing me, something will happen to write about.***

Uncategorized

Running with Jesus

***This is an old Facebook post that came up in my memories that I thought was too funny not to share here. Some of you may remember it. ***

My stream of consciousness as I’m running this evening:

Wow, I’m at a pretty good pace today! I can tell because I’m hot and sweaty and tired and on song number four of my playlis—–whaa???—-Is that a BIBLE on the sidewalk? (Still running) Crap. It is. Ugh. (Passing the bible) Now I gotta go back. I gotta. I have no choice. (Turning around going back.) Hmmm. It’s kind of right in front of this house. I wonder if the owners are inside? If I knock on the door will they think I’m a Bible salesman or a Jehovah’s Witness? This feels weird. Just put it in a safe corner here on the grass and come back and get it after my run. Oh man, there’s a name engraved on it. There’s pressed flowers inside. It’s important to someone. No, I can’t do that. I’ll for sure get hit by a car on my way home if I do that. (Picking up the 10 lb hardcover four-versions-in-one bible). Ok. I’ll just keep running. I only have about five minutes left, I can do this. It’s a Bible for goodness’ sake it should make my load “lighter” ha ha. Stop it. You should not make jokes about the Bible. Nope doesn’t feel any lighter. I wonder if all these drivers are wondering “Hey, who’s the crazy lady running with the Bible? Why doesn’t she just listen to the audio version?” This is getting pretty heavy. Think I will just walk the rest of the way home.

If anyone knows Teresa Dotson, please let her know I have her bible.

Never a Dulles Moment

Finding the absurd in the ordinary

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