I spuddle.

We are UnCamping this weekend because we forgot to book a campsite in a timely manner and have nowhere to camp, which is a relief to me because we got the camper yesterday from where it is stored at my sister’s house (because in our municipality you are actually banished if you store a camper on your driveway) and its interior is more than a little moldy from winter damp.   I was not relishing the idea of sleeping in the cold north of Sooke in a moldy camper.   Normally, I get the camper all polished up before the first trip but the first trip snuck up on us this year and I was really busy procrastinating doing my Pecha Kucha slides until the last possible minute, which disallowed me from cleaning the camper.

I was busy.

So so busy.

I am not used to being busy in quite this way.

But I can’t tell anything about why I was busy and what I was busy contemplating because it’s a SECRET.   And it’s a really really really good SECRET.   And no no no, a thousand times NO, I am not pregnant.   So don’t guess that.   Every time I have a secret, someone says, “You’re pregnant!”  and they are all happy and excited as though I don’t have enough kids already and the only thing that will save our universe from certain demise is if I produce another baby and cease sleeping for ANOTHER FIVE YEARS.   O-to-the-MG, NOOOOOOooooooo.   I’m already so tired that sometimes I wake up and have no idea who or where I am, let’s not bring on the dementia any quicker, mkay?

Mkay.

For some reason, I find “mkay” more amusing than “okay”.

So there’s that bit about the good SECRET that I can’t tell you and the UnCamping and then the part about how The Bun is going to Catholic school even though we are the UnCatholics, which I didn’t tell you about but trust me, it’s a decision that I spent a lot of time agonizing about unnecessarily this week in lieu of cleaning campers, booking campsites, or writing books.    Now I’ve started typing about it though, I realize the whole discussion of it is silly, like I couldn’t POSSIBLY have any more middle-class troubles than the agonizing decision about whether to send my kid to the perfectly good local public school or the slightly better quasi-private Catholic school.    I mean, seriously.   There are oil spills.   This is not a real ‘problem’, it’s just me, spuddling.

I do love the word spuddle.   I was driving along the other day and was distracted so missed the turn to my own house and ended up looping around this other road, where I don’t normally drive, and I noticed that the big load of topsoil that these people had had delivered about three years ago has completely grown over with grass, so in the middle of this person’s lawn, there is like a giant grass molehill.   Which made me think of the word ‘spuddle’, which basically means ‘making mountains out of molehills’ and I thought, I should take a picture of that and put it on my blog, but then I felt weird about taking a picture of it, so I didn’t, but I will and then will randomly post it and you’ll go, “Why is there a tiny grass mountain on that person’s lawn and why did Karen take a picture of it?”

So anyway, The Bun is pretty cross that we’re not camping and he keeps interrupting me as I’m typing this to say things like, “WHAT ABOUT PARKSVILLE?  LET’S CAMP AT PARKSVILLE.”  And then I type three more words and he says, “MUMMY MUMMY MUMMY WHAT ABOUT THE WOODS?”  So I said, “Honey, Mummy just has to type this one paragraph.  Can you please just let me type this one paragraph without interrupting?”

And he’s five, so he got all belligerent and said, “Oh YEAH?  OH YEAH?  And what’s a PARAGRAPH?  Is it your BRAIN?”

So I said, “Yes.   My brain is a paragraph.”

None of that made any sense but I thought it made a good ending to this post.

Filed under: Miscellaneous, Random Story of The Day