Every Fucking Year

Every year, my family descends on a small campground in central Wisconsin like a plague of locus. First of all, you need to understand that my mother is one of 7 children! SEVEN. One just died but still, that's 6 from that generation, 12 including their spouses. All those kids had kids (my generation) and we all procreated proficiently. So, if my math is correct, there were exactly 487 of us there last weekend. We take over an entire section, staking out our tents and parking our campers. We light fires and talk really REALLY loudly. It's a tremendous amount of fun. My children are at an age that I can mostly ignore them and behave inappropriately. Good stuff. There is enough food to nourish a small country and enough gossip/hot air to make a 747 float without engines running. We ride bikes and hike. We go fishing and play cut throat games of dominoes. We sit and do nothing. And then. And Then. My uncle busts out the 'apple pie". This is a homemade moonshine beverage so strong it can clean tar off the roads. He has this in a moonshine jug and it gets passed around the campfire like a joint around a party. So, the people are talking and drinking and ignoring their children. Seriously, can it get any better than that?

However, there is one part of the camping ritual that I hate and it happens ever got damned year! Ever single fucking year, people, every one of them!

I get lost. I've been going to this same campground since my kids were snot nosed little monsters biting each other. And still I get lost. I will not take the blame for this though. It's Google's fault. Every year they give me the wrong damn directions. I get ALMOST there and the directions say to turn on 9th. And I remember that the directions were wrong last year and I should probably not turn on 9th. But surely, Surely in the past 12 months, some yokel at Google must have pulled his head out of his ass and fixed this, right? He must have. And so I turn on 9th only to discover I am headed to Bob's cranberry farm instead of the campground. So, being the consistantly stupid woman that I am I call my dad and our conversation always, Always, ALWAYS goes exactly like this:

• Sassy: I turned on 9th again and it's not 9th. Which street am I actually supposed to turn on?
• Dad: Haha, did you get on the wrong G again?
• Sassy: No Dad, I got on the right G. I know which G to turn on. I'm almost there. Just tell me what what I turn on that drives straight into the campground.
• Dad: But we're in Falalala County. Are you in the right county? Maybe you turned too soon and ended up on the wrong G.
• Sassy: No Dad. Right G, wrong street number. Just tell me the street number.
• Dad: Did you go north on 21? This one time in Vietnam I turned south on 21 and suddenly people were shooting at me...
• Sassy: Dad. Dad! DAD!
• Dad: Hmm, who took my Scotch?
• Background Peoples: I have it - I think Uncle George drank it - YOU drank it, can I get you another?
• Sassy: OMG!
• Dad: Don't say the lord's name in vain god Damn It!
• Sassy: sorry
• Distant cousin type person in the background: Did she turn on 9th again? Ahahahahaha!!!! I'll start pouring the whiskey. She'll be here soon, finally. Why is she always the last one here?
• Another distant gene pool spawn: Because she forgets to turn on mumble instead of 9th.
• Sassy: What street Dad? What (FUCKING) street?
• Dad: Where are you? Did you take Felix road to the wrong G?
• Sassy: Holy crap, enough with the G already!
• Quiet and kind relative: It's 8th uncle Dad. Tell her she needed to turn on 8th.
• Dad: If you actually took 21 north and got on the right G *click*

At this point either I have hung up on him before I told him to stick Hwy 21 up his ass or he hung up on me because he found he scotch. Either way, I take 8th and arrive to find that someone, god bless them, has already poured me a fucking drink.

I love my family. And Jack.
Would it be inappropriate if I changed my last name to Daniels just to express my deep and abiding love for Jack?
Yes, thank god for Jack!
Amen