But here I am. I'm over it. Hopefully you're over it. Breathe, and let's move on to the pinata.
...There is no pinata. But BOY, ARE THERE STORIES. I'll get into the hilarious and heartwarming sometime in the near future. For now, though, a basic overview.
Basically, it's you and a "buddy counselor" (mine was a lovely, twenty-one-year-old petite brunette named Erin, with whom I've been friends through church for a few years), and the two of you spend a week leading your cabin of four girls around to various stages of chaos. Ours were senior campers, so we spent most of our time with the other eleven-year-old girl cabins, which were led by my sisters and the other Hip Young Counselors. We participated in a lot of relay races involving pool noodles, ironed a lot of fuze bead crafts, sang a lot of high-pitched songs about Jesus, and averted a lot of eleven-year-old crises. Camp-wise, things ran smoothly all week. Aside from the spiders in the showers and Sam's Club "cheese" curls served as a nutritious side dish with most meals. But yeah, most of the problems were much more emotional than physical.
I bonded intensely with one of my girls, which was a bad plan from the start, because the nature of the camp makes it so we can't exchange personal information or photographs, and there's a good chance I'll never see this kid again. So I spent a week being her MOTHER, like, helping her get showered, taking her to the doctor's station when she got an ear infection, going swimming with her alone in the rain, inventing a secret handshake to make her smile, being the first person she saw in the morning and the last before bed, and then I returned home to... emptiness and vacancy. I did all those things for the other three girls, but at the distance of a camp counselor. To this one special girl, though, I was a mom for a week. And then, of course, I had to send her back to the crack projects where her biological mother doesn't have two dimes to rub together but has more than enough kids to not support, and...
Yeah, this is why I didn't blog before. I'm starting to sound wretched. Nearly all abusers were abused. I know. I can't adopt someone seven years younger than I am. I know. But it doesn't make it any easier to deal with firsthand.
Anyway, the experience, while exhausting and maddening and sometimes miserable, was fun, beautiful, and life-changing all the same. I'd suspected for some time that I'd like to be an adoptive or foster parent, but camp this year confirmed for me how serious I am. You can't look into the eyes of those sweet little kids and not want to love and care for them until the end of time. I'll get married, adopt two kids over the age of eight (that's when it gets really, really hard for them to find homes), give birth to two kids, publish a few novels, and stay home with my flock. Throw a little Chipotle in there, and I really can't imagine a better life.
In completely unrelated, chipper news (before I tear up, frankly), I realized the other day that one of my top ten favorite authors, Jaclyn Moriarty, has a blog. I instantly ate that thing up. (So I sort of lied when I said I haven't read a single blog since I got home. I haven't read a single blog written by a human, and Jaclyn Moriarty is like a goddess and unicorn's love child.) Anyway, it took about two sentences of her carefree, understated voice for my legs to start shaking with glee, and lo and behold: I've now reread The Year of Secret Assignments and Feeling Sorry for Celia, and have restarted The Murder of Bindy Mackenzie. HOW IS THE WOMAN SO AMAZING?
Remember the time I promoted Megan McCafferty's Sloppy Firsts like crazycakes after the release of Perfect Fifths, and a whole group of you skeptical commentors gave it a try, and now you're all totally obsessed? Well, you're going to have to trust me a second time, and those of you who didn't listen to the first suggestion are going to have to trust me through the example of your peers. I said it in a video once before, but here's the thing about Jaclyn's books, especially Assignments: they're such a rare, unique, acquired-taste treasure that America has no idea what to do with them. They fly up from Australia, and some old bald guy in a New York office glances at them and is like, "Uhhh. This humor is too unusual and fascinating for our young adults. I guess... I guess we'll just make it look like middle school chick lit and hide them somewhere?" And then he slams down some kind of official rubber stamp, and the business is done. So whatever you do, make sure you don't read--or look at-- the covers. Just locate the books, squeeze your eyes shut, and run. Because these novels are beautiful art, and the covers remind me of Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen.
Because Lor and Sebastian provided enough of a push for it in their Special Guest blogs during my absence, I've decided to resurrect un/sexy. Partly because The Real Popstar Justin Timberlake wrote a page in this month's Glamour about what is and isn't attractive, and that was just too coincidental to not be an act of God... but mostly because it's a crowd-pleaser and I miss it. *Cough* SO:
Sexy: Being a witty conversationalist, speaking with the cadence of one who recognizes his own gifts as a witty conversationalist, but not being too cocky about his conversational wit. Also, funnel cakes.
Unsexy: The kind of boyfriend who would not bring you a funnel cake late at night after he went to a concert on the riverfront, where they sell funnel cakes. Lucky for me (and I suppose for you, you romance-thriving whores) that is not the kind of boyfriend I have. Oh, shut up. :)
Chipotle burritos this year: 23
S'mores this summer: 3
Bye, guys. Freal, hopefully I'll see you tomorrow. <3
P.S. Commentor A.J. asked about Jess's Haiti trip. I'm going to let this picture speak for that experience, because words can't describe what a gorgeous human being my best friend is. She's so much better than the rest of us. And look how cute!