Who Knew Ice Cream Could Cure Trichinosis?

The fire fizzled out when it started to rain. Six hours later we eat the way-too-pink-mostly-raw pork chops anyway. I'm wondering when the full-blown trichinosis kicks in, will be too late to save us because we're at least 2 hours away from a hospital? And who will drive? Because on top of the trichinosis, I don't have my driving glasses. I dont' want to even think about Rob's reaction when everyone starts projectile vomiting all over the interior of the Volvo.

Maybe we should just crawl into the tent and die peacefully without the hub bub of doctors and emergency rooms? Should I leave a note for my parents? What should I say? "I'm sorry, I know we shouldn't have eaten the raw pork but we were so hungry.  Please water the hydrangeas."

While I'm contemplating all of this trichinosis business – the fact that I’m starting to develop stomach cramps, Oskar's looking pale and Isla hasn’t yelled in over 5 minutes which for sure means she’s really sick, the woman from 2 campsites over, in her robe, steps out of her $300,000 hotel-on-wheels carrying a blended margarita. 

This brown, rolling, toxic monstrosity actually blocks the moon. I'm a moon girl and that's one of the main reasons I agreed to this camping vacation ("camping" and "vacation", btw, have no fucking business being in the same sentence together). And as if it's not bad enough that I can't see the moon, during the day this behemoth trailer casts an enormous shadow on everything - including my heart. But none of this matters anymore because we'll be dead by morning. 

The woman saunters over to our site and sweetly asks, “Would your kids like to come over for banana splits?” She smells like mango and vanilla body soap. I smell like raw pork and wet dog.

“Yeah! Yeah! Banana Splits! Yeah!” the kids shriek. Should I tell her we might have trichinosis and I’m currently planning our funerals in my head? Maybe ice cream will be a good distraction for them and they won't notice we're killing them slowly by feeding them raw meat.

We venture into the trailer and it’s nicer than my house. Can you seriously have granite counter tops in a motor home? Maybe they’re not real granite, I can’t tell. Should I ask? 

The kids make, and then gorge on banana splits. They look like they’ve died and gone to heaven. I notice Ms. Motor Home is not as generous with the margaritas as she is with the ice cream. Tequila would have totally taken the edge off the Trich.

“Camping is so wonderful, isn’t it?” Ms. Motor Home coos. Seriously? You actually think this is camping? When you dump that margarita all over your shirt you’ll just pitch it into your front-loading washer. That ice cream all over my daughter’s jammies… we’re going to go to bed tonight and hope a raccoon doesn’t eat her face off.

Half an hour later I have to hoof the kids in the back of their legs with my foot because I know they’re about to ask if they can crash tonight in the rolling mansion. Hell, I’m going to ask if I can sleep here tonight. The thread count looks high.

Of course the second we get back to the campsite the kids start in about their impoverished lives. Did you see the size of the TV? How come our tent doesn’t have a freezer? How come we always have to eat boiled eggs floating in the cooler.

Hold your horses you little shits! Maybe we don’t have an ice cream bar in our tent. Or a satellite dish to pipe in Scooby Doo. Or an on-site happy hour bar. But you know what else I just realized we don’t have? Trichinosis! 

The banana splits are fine and all, but where's the fire? Where's marshmallows? Where's the fun? Now get outside and start poking each other with hot, sharp sticks!