August 30, 2012

When the wit hits the van

Riding in an RV when you're younger is more exciting than my imagined (yet non-existent) trip to Disney World. More mind-blowing than my guess at the awesomeness of Saturday morning cartoons (had I been allowed to watch them). More titillating than the yearned-for Babysitter Club books (that were banned from coming within a 10-foot radius of me).

Sitting at a table while Grandpa drove was impossibly cool. Lying on a bed while cruising down a highway at 45 miles per hour? Even better.

The body always wants what the body can't have, however. Using the bathroom in the RV probably would have been a punishment had we been forced to utilize it. I mean, it's basically a porta potty on wheels, for goodness sake, just minus gross views and the constant fear of falling in. As it was, however, we had to conduct all business at rest stops and gas stations along the way, which, of course, made the RV bathroom utterly desirable. Unattainably cool. Impossibly awesome.

...all which might explain why my cousin and I broke down and decided to use it during a camping trip on our way to Canada one summer. My cousin, whom I shall call "Nicole" for anonymity sake, was about my same age and had my same embarrassingly low level of humor (which means we laughed at everything and annoyed everyone with our constant giggling).

One of us laid of laid a deuce in that RV. I honestly don't remember who. (Honestly.) Or why. (Although it might have been solely due to that urge you get to squeeze an entire tube of toothpaste in the sink just to see what an entire tube of toothpaste in the sink looks like.)           Er, just me? Carry on.

And when the culprit (whoever she was) tried to flush, she found that there was NO WATER HOOKUP. That poop just sat there, grinning right back at her.

So here we were in the RV with the evidence of a non-flushing sin stinking up the place, our parents and grandparents just feet away outside playing cards at the picnic table. So of course we lost our heads and started laughing. Uncontrollably.

Then - still howling - we went in a 6x15-foot search of something to hide this disaster. And out of all the paper towels and scratch paper score cards and toilet paper rolls, we happened upon a serving spoon.

I am truly sorry, Grandma.

I don't even remember the details of what happened next, I was so short of oxygen from hyperventilating with laughter. I blame it all on Nicole...

So when all was said and done (and washed and put away in the silverware drawer), you think I would have learned my lesson when I got an overwhelming urge to stick my chewed gum in my dad's hair on the way home in our minivan. You'd think I'd have stilled my hand. Clenched my fist. Resisted that arm.

But no.

For some unfathomable reason, I stuck that wad on the back of his head while he was driving.

What was wrong with me?? Nicole wasn't even around! How did I possibly grow up to be such a responsible and self-controlled adult? It boggles my mind. I do, however, still resist the urge to fill the sink with shaving cream and immerse my hands in the soft dreaminess. But that's neither here nor there. I still blame Nicole.

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