Normally a beautiful shade of (chemically-enhanced) blonde, my hair lay before Cindy a garish copper blonde, fading to orange at the nape of my neck and down to the brittle, flaked ends. I know what I did. Cindy knows what I did. I know that Cindy knows what I did.
I shampooed my hair at the cabin.
The cabin is Husband's ancestral home. Although not a castle, it boasts the other amenities of an ancestral home. Built by hand. Vermin. Recent addition of indoor plumbing.
I was there for four days. At some point, I have to shampoo my hair. Cindy had me on a strict regimen. I was not to shampoo my hair from the well water that runs through the shower's plumbing. Rather, I'm supposed to shampoo my hair using the icy water collected by Dad2 in a gallon jug from a nearby stream. Once home, I use an $18 vegan shampoo that chelates color-disrupting minerals from blonde hair.
I'm not sure why the chelating shampoo has to be vegan. Cindy is an old friend of my in-laws. Which makes her a grown-up. I'm supposed to listen to grown-ups. If I don't, my grandmother will haunt me. I don't like ghosts (more on that next week). So I listen to Cindy. Cindy says $18 vegan chelating shampoo, I buy $18 vegan chelating shampoo.
I'm pretty sure Husband at this point is more curious about the $18 than the veganism. German sensibility prohibits $18 shampoo.
But when we rolled into the cabin - in the woods, in the mountains, in central Pennsylvania -I was tired and grimy from three hours in the car and one hour at Cabela's.
Oh, you don't know about Cabela's? I can tell you all about Cabela's. Marrying into Husband's family has been an education on most things outdoorsy. Which I'm allowed to say because A) I say it with love and B) my kids are rednecks, on their paternal grandfather's side.
Cabela's is an outdoors outfitter in Hamburg. Not Germany. Pennsylvania. And it is a scavenger hunt of outdoor, redneck culture. Sausage made from elk, bison, or deer? Check. Dude walking around in a ripped muscle shirt in December? Check. Pick-up truck with a gun rack on the back and fishing rod rack on the front? Check. Sound recordings of turkey calls to perfect your technique so you can lure that turkey the "last few yards to gun range"? Check. Video game in which you shoot deer? Check.
I'm not saying any of this is bad, exactly. It's just different from anything I was ever exposed to as a child. See, I'm from Abington. The most outdoorsy I got in Abington was my swim club. Or when I had to walk to the mall. You know, in the dark days. Before I had a driver's license.
So between Cabela's and the drive to the cabin, I really needed a shower. And I was tired. And I forgot to use the stream water.
As soon as I stepped from the shower, I realized what I had done. I conceded that the following day, I would skip the shampoo altogether.
But the following day, the kids and I stepped into our rain boots and stood knee deep in the stream while Dad2 and Husband stocked it.
Let me guess. You don't know what "stocking" is either, right? Once upon a time I was as blissfully ignorant as you. "Stocking" is when you take buckets of live fish and dump them into the stream for the purpose of being fished. The fish are cultivated at the hatchery. Once grown, they are loaded in buckets onto Shag's truck and driven to the stream for the aforementioned dumping.
You don't know what a "Shag" is either, am I right? "Shag" is a guy that lives near the cabin. I don't know much about him. To be honest, that's a Ph.D. in the education of being married to Husband and I'm happy with my master's degree, thank you very much.
So we were standing in the stream - well, I was standing, the kids were playing - when Dad2 called over to me that he was sure that the kids would either A) fall into the stream or B) see a snake.
I mean really. Why. Why did he have to say that? I was already on the lookout for anacondas. Sharks. Piranha. Anything that typically attacks in knee-deep streams in central Pennsylvania in the summer. Husband had assured me that we were at a part of the stream not inhabited by snakes. Clearly, there is some kind of border patrol or green card system that prevents snakes from - ugh- swimming in this part of the stream. Why did Dad2 go and say that?
By the time the kids were tired of exploring the stream, we all had water in our rain boots. We retreated to the cabin, where the shower beckoned me. Son had dislodged fish eggs during his play, and they had floated downstream, right by me, an incredibly close 6 feet away.
Gross.
And the bugs. They just swarm all over you while you're in the woods. And everybody knows gnats and mosquitoes like to set up shop in blonde hair that is rapidly converting to orange.
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| I mean, come on with those spider webs already. It looks like the f***ing spiders from The Hobbit set up house in Pennsylvania. |
But I was a good girl. I used a gallon jug of stream water and pretended that it didn't potentially come from the same stream that had dislodged fish eggs floating in it.
And yet, thanks to that one shampoo on my first night, by the following day I was already quickly brandishing hair the color of autumn leaves.
That actually sounds kind of pretty.
It's not.
But still trying to embrace cabin life, I encouraged Husband to go fish with his dad. As the afternoon wore on, the kids asked for their standard cabin dinnertime fare - hot dogs. Now as far as Son was concerned, I was solid. That kid is straight up British. Boiling his dog is a-OK with him. But Daughter wanted hers cooked over the outdoor fireplace. Which meant Mom2 and I had to build a fire.
OK. We didn't HAVE to build a fire. But we agreed that it was a point of pride for us - our ability to function within the boundaries of cabin life without Husband and Dad2. How hard could building a fire be? We had kindling, firewood, and one of those candle lighter things they sell at Yankee Candle. Not only had we watched Husband and Dad2 build fires for years, but Husband had been aggressively training Son and Daughter in the art of fire building. Plus I have two master's degrees - one in nursing, the other in being married to Husband. We could do this.
And you know what? It's not building a fire that's difficult. It's maintaining a fire that's difficult. Just when we thought we had a roaring blaze, the fire would fizzle down to embers. "Use the blower!", Daughter advised, handing me the bellows. "Lay the firewood in an 'X'," Mom2 suggested. "Dead leaves!", Son cried, tossing dry leaves by the fistful into the fire.
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| My fire is unintentionally phallic. |
Between the four of us, we got that fire going. Daughter had her hot dog, cooked over the fireplace built by her great-grandfather. Mom2 and I smiled smugly as Husband and Dad2 drove up the mountain, incredulous at the cozy blaze warding off the mosquitoes.
Husband approached me. "Can you believe it?" I asked. "We started a fire and cooked hot dogs over it! And we talked to the neighbor from the bottom of the mountain!"
Oh, you want to know why it's a big deal to talk with the neighbor from the bottom of the mountain? Are you sure? Cause that's a post-doctorate in being married to Husband.
Do you really think you're ready for that?
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| Cause that's what you listen to on your way to the cabin. |
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