True Love Means Peeing In The Woods

I am sooooooooo behind in documenting our first foray into camping as a couple, because, you know, life happens. And if you’ve been keeping up, life has been kind of shitting on me recently. So I really just never sat down to finish writing about our camping trip from last summer.

Which is a damn shame, because I really should have documented everything while it was fresh in my mind. Luckily however, it really wasn’t THAT long ago, and the concussion was minor enough (we’ll get to that later) that I have retained most memories from this little adventure. So I am here to share with you what essentially qualifies as my second camping trip EVER.

If you’re not already familiar with my disastrous camping history, you should be. I am what you would call an “indoor girl.” I need makeup, an outlet for my curling iron, air conditioning, and although I kind of thought this went without saying – indoor plumbing.

So when Gil told me one of his best friends was getting married in the mountains and it was going to be a “camping wedding” and that we would LITERALLY be sleeping outside on the ground, this was my face:


But I am nothing if not a trooper. And a damn good girlfriend. Since I knew it was important to him, I faked a smile, said it sounded like an adventure and that I was willing to give camping a second chance. And I was told there would be a bathroom and indoor plumbing somewhere on the camp site, and NO WILD BOARS, so I figured I’d survive.

So Gil, being a good boyfriend, went to a camping store to get a battery powered blow up mattress that would fit in the bed of his dad’s truck that we were borrowing. He had a truck tent (that’s a thing? and I know those words now? what??), that fit on the bed of the truck, so it seemed as close to “glamping” as I was going to get.

But I want to make one thing really clear – he didn’t just do it to be a considerate partner. I mean, he is, and that’s part of it. But REALLY, he just didn’t want to hear me squawking at him the whole time and this was his preemptive strike against it. Seriously, sometimes when I get on a tear about something he just caws at me like a giant bird. HE LITERALLY SQUAWKS AT ME UNTIL HE DROWNS ME OUT. So let’s be really real – he was trying to placate my inner bird-woman.

So away we went. To a camping wedding. And… it was kind of amazing. His friends who were getting married are pretty much the most amazing people on the planet and have the rare ability to make everyone they meet feel incredibly special. They had all their friends and family in one place, and it was one of those weddings where there was so much love it was palpable. Even the bride’s broken leg couldn’t dampen the excitement and activity going on.

Day one was essentially the rehearsal dinner and a huge party. Oh, did I not mention this was an entire weekend of camping, not just one night?

With the party in full swing and what basically amounts to a huge reunion of Gil’s friends, we stayed up well into the night. Gil decided there wasn’t actually enough room for both of us to be comfortable in the bed of the truck, without running the risk of one of us rolling over and falling into the cavern between the airbed and the side of the truck. So he very gallantly slept on the ground in a tent and gave me full reign of the truck.

It wasn’t nearly as bad as I thought it was going to be. Until I woke up in the middle of the night and had to pee. Real bad. As I crawled out of the truck, I realized in this particular instance, I would have actually been better off if we’d really been camping in a more remote location, instead of surrounded by other cars and trucks and campers. I was not prepared to just fully drop trow since I had no idea who might be walking around and I do try to limit full on flashing people until at least the second or third time we meet.

And remember – there was a bathroom. It was just up a hill from where we were all camping. Which in the light of day looks like no big deal. But in the middle of the night when you’re half awake and regretting those margaritas from earlier…. well, it may as well be Everest.

But I survived, and we made into the wedding day relatively unscathed. And then I realized I had to get ready for a wedding. In a truck. In the woods.

Turns out, there was actually a shower inside the building where the bathroom was. But the walls surrounding the shower? Glass. Remember my rule about flashing?

I had somehow not anticipated the need for a bathing suit, so I made my way into the bathroom where I gave myself a quick whore’s bath at the sink, and patted myself on the back for bringing dry shampoo. I have to admit, we cleaned up pretty well.

wedding in the woods

And the wedding was flawless. The ceremony was back on the property under the trees, and we got to watch two of the most genuine people I’ve ever met pledge their love to one another. Totally worth it.

From there, it was time for another party! I’m getting a little old for this whole two nights in a row business, but if the bride could get out on the dance floor and bust a move even in her cast, I had no excuses.

But the thing is, dancing is not one of my gifts. I’m not what you would consider graceful. I fall a lot. I trip over my own feet. I lack rhythm completely. But as we stood there watching a group of his friends go through what was essentially a choreographed dance they had perfected over all their years of partying together, I felt a little… inspired.

To be clear, we will never be the couple with the choreographed moves on the dance floor. Gil is actually a pretty good dancer but I’m more of what you’d call a flailer. I flail. Or shake my boobs. Those are my only moves. So I dragged him out on the dance floor and commenced the most graceful flail I could muster. We were both pretty into the song at that point, and since we have an ongoing competition in our relationship over who has the better hair (he’s been growing his out since I met him), we were both whipping our hair pretty aggressively.

But I’m 5’4″. He’s 6’3″. He’s also a long time heavy metal concertgoer. He’s used to mosh pits and has what I am now convinced is literally the thickest skull in the world. Because as I was coming up, he was coming down, and his forehead cracked down directly on the top of my head.

As it happened, one of Gil’s best friend’s is an EMT and his girlfriend is a nurse, so when the world was still spinning a few minutes later, I knew I had back up if I needed it. I didn’t, but I did wind up with a killer headache that had me turning in early, leaving Gil to party on into the night. Which is kind of shame, because it sounds like things really got going after that. At one point in the night, I could hear someone in the tent next to our truck having sex, which if I recall correctly, is essentially the whole point of a wedding when you’re single, so hooray for them!

When dawn broke, there were a few sheepish faces and a couple quick getaways, and I think we were all in desperate need of a shower and a nap. But at the end of the day, it was one of the best weddings I’ve ever been to. I would do it again in a heartbeat. Only next time my request will include no wild boars AND no concussions.

Yes, That IS My Nipple In Your Wedding Photo

Why, yes, that IS my nipple in your wedding photo!

Woman holding beautiful azure wedding flowers bouquets

This is not a phrase every girl dreams of saying one day. I however, am not like most girls. Wait, that implies I dreamed of saying it… that’s not true, but my nipple has made an appearance in some professional wedding photos. It might be on video somewhere too, who knows.

About 5 years ago, my best friend from college got married. I was so excited for her. She and her college sweetheart were perfect for each other – I even had a hand in shoving them together the first night they met. I like to think of myself as a smooth wing-woman and matchmaker but mostly I was tipsy and loud and physically cornered them together until it was palpably awkward. But it worked out, and a few years later they decided to tie the knot.

This was a decent sized affair and relatively formal, although not black-tie. And I was the Maid of Honor. But without the horrible dress or having to stand up next to them. Having experienced what it was like to be a bridesmaid and how quickly things could unravel, she’d wisely opted to avoid all the drama and just have me wear what I wanted, sit where I wanted and give a speech at the reception. No muss, no fuss.

And I will say this – it was a flawlessly executed wedding at a country club and the reception was a hell of a party. I’ve been to somewhere between 20 and 30 weddings in the last 7 or 8 years and this one stands out. And not just because of my nipple, but we’re getting to that.

Anyhow, I was seated with another friend from college and some of the bride’s friends from work and I’d say our table would be considered one of the single and rowdy variety. Post-wedding parties were being planned, champagne was being spilled, and dance moves were getting… interesting. I had purposely abstained from the cocktails to make sure my speech went smoothly, and once that was over I figured I could relax for the rest of the night.

And then… the announcement of death. The one I have come to loathe over the years – the bouquet toss. It used to just be an annoyance since I don’t really get into a lot of wedding traditions, but I get that some people are into it and I could usually be convinced to get out on the floor. But this particular experience has helped fuel my hatred for it, and is the reason I now refuse to get sucked into the clawing cluster of women to fight for an arrangement of flowers I didn’t even get to pick out.

I would have just sat this one out and gleefully watched all the drunk single girls fighting over the flowers like bargain shoppers on Black Friday, but as the Maid of Honor and the only woman from our table not on the dance floor, I was called out and begrudgingly made my way to the center of the room.

Now, I kid you not, one of the girls at my table was over 6 feet tall. The girl had some serious reach and we all knew she’d be able to pluck anything out of the sky before we even really knew what happened. So there we were, the seven of us lined up shoulder to shoulder with the Amazon in the middle, all eyes on us, every photographer poised to capture this moment in time forever. As I’m being jostled and trying to keep a smile on my face for the pictures, I realize that my vertically advanced table mate now has her arms stretched wide, essentially holding back the three women on either side of her. And in her champagne fueled attempt to jockey for position, she’s clutching at the rest of us. One of whom happens to be a 38DDD in a wrap dress.

Yup, in the midst of the flashbulbs and the bride and groom’s family and friends all looking on, I feel my dress being grabbed and ripped right off my boob. Nipple out. Full boob. Luckily I have pretty nice boobs, so I guess there are worse things, but STILL. I’m not even sure exactly how she managed it, but that was my cue. Like a lady, I re-situated my dress, tucked my boob back in and walked swiftly back to my seat for the champagne I’d left waiting for me. And wouldn’t you know it, she staggered back a couple minutes later, victorious and clutching her prize.

And that, dear friends, is why you will always find me conveniently in the bathroom or getting a drink whenever it’s time for the bouquet toss. I like to expose my nipples on my own terms.