Ahh Tuesday, time to celebrate the passing of another Monday with our wild and crazy True Story Tuesday carnival!
You’ve probably already written a post about something outrageous/amazing/miraculous/hilarious that has happened to you… or maybe you just remembered that family legend that gets retold around the table every holiday. In any case, write all about it for your adoring visitors, paste the code in your post from below the True Story Tuesday button on the right sidebar, and come back to link up your unbelievable story! We’ll be around to share the comment love!
This week is another camping debacle brought to you courtesy of your cityfied girly-girl who will show you just where her hate-hate relationship with roughing it originated. From the ancient history books…
I don’t know. Was I six? Seven?
I was old enough to know that I much preferred curling up with a good book in the comfort of a bug-free zone, instead of getting sticky and itchy and trying to lipread by the light of a campfire.
But the folks hauled us off to commune with nature.
We had already spent a mosquito filled night or two in our lovely accommodations:
My dad’s friend (let’s call him Joe) showed up and was being his loud boisterous self at the morning campfire as my mother packed up our things and loaded them into the truck.
You know how those truck shells have two doors – the top and then the truck bed gate?
Well, I got my big old 2” biceps to pull open that top door, then leaned against the gate to lower it slowly (it crashed down anyway).
I clambered up and struggled to pull the doors back up behind me. I was gonna change out of my grimy pj’s before we headed home.
I sat atop all the camping gear and quickly got into clean clothes. Heading back out, I pushed with all my might to open the top door.
Wouldn’t you know that sucker was spring-loaded?
Ohh yes. It swung open nearly all the way as I leaned out over the bottom gate. Then it suddenly swung shut again, throwing me backwards into the bed of the truck.
I felt an immediate pain as I landed and knew something wasn’t quite right.
Wouldn’t you know it?
My mother had taken great pains to pack everything safely.
I had somehow manage to land on a sharp object that she had wrapped in paper towels and placed in a bag.
Yep my friends, I somehow managed to stab my self in the butt.
What was a million times worse, is that I immediately jumped up…
and the dang knife followed me!
Literally, I was hanging out of the back of the truck, fully dressed, with a big ol camp knife stuck in one cheek.
Poor Joe took one look at me and went into gasping coughing laughing convulsions and alerted the entire National Park of my plight.
And I absolutely am not going to tell you if that left a mark.
(You be quiet Mr. Daddy!)
I know you’ve got some camping adventures of your own! Hoepfully you haven’t managed to stab yourself, but maybe you’ve discovered a penchant for injuring yourself in stunningly original (and blogworthy) ways?
If so, link it up and we’d love to be around to share some laughs and gasps! (and of course, comments!)~