Thunder Thunder, Crash Crash

Last night, there was a hugh-mungo storm in South Central Kentucky. Our local weatherman (if you can call him that) was at his post, cutting into our regular programming, warning us of strong storms, frequent & deadly lighting, possible hail (which never really happens, except for that one time it did), and, of course, tornadoes! I don't typically get too riled up about Mother Nature, and last night was no exception. Muscles, however, does. Muscles has been known to jump out of bed and run through the house at the sound of a little strong wind. He religiously checks the weather on his handy iPhone, and informs those around him of the percentage chance of rain on a bi-daily basis. He also sometimes musters up his courage and tries to watch the storm from the front porch, until lightening sends him running inside. My mother is also like this, so I'm used to it. I have lots of memories of my mom and I huddled in bathtubs and interior closest with pillows, blankets, and flashlights during thunderstorms. We are a safe bunch.

Anyway, as I mentioned in an earlier post, this is day camp week at my job. This particular night, of all nights, was the final night of camp, culminating in a sleepover. So, I have two camps full of kiddos huddled in lodges, and their designated adults are making important decisions. I decide to call and check in on both camps. The first camp, let's call it "Camp Legit" cause they know what they're doing for the most part, does not answer. Camp Reba (refer to earlier post) does answer, and informs me that they have no power, but all is well. The girls are singing merrily around a makeshift campfire, otherwise known as a lantern. It's not a dreamboat, but it works. The girls have had a blast there this week.

Repeatedly, I try calling Camp Legit. I can't get through. Suddenly, a light bulb goes off above my head. Duh, Rooster. Camp Legit's lodge has a working telephone, a land line. Now, just to find the number. I, instead find the number of Ranger Rulebook, the site maintenance and order-keeper for Camp Legit. I call him up.

"Hi, Ranger Rulebook. I apologize for calling so late, but I need the number to Camp Legit."
"THIS is NOT the number to Camp. You have the wrong number," he growls, misunderstanding.
"No, no!" I exclaim, "This is Rooster Roo from the Girl Scouts Office. I need the number to camp, please."
"What is your concern?" Rulebook inquires.
Oh, well since it's not obvious, I was concerned about the pollen count in the middle of the night, while a tornado is tearing through the area, I think sarcastically. Good thing I think before I speak most of the time. I explain instead that my camp director is new, and I want to check on them in this monsoon.

Ranger Rulebook, always knowing best as it is, begins a 20-minute long diatribe about the qualifications of the volunteers at camp, and how I do not need to call them. Again, I ask politely for the number, just in case, and again, Rulebook recites his speech about why I do not need the number. Clearly, Rulebook does not understand that I am the all-important, young CEO of this outfit. (Of course, I'm not, but it's a better title than my real job.) We talk in circle for another 20 minutes until, suddenly, SHHHHHHHHHHH. Click.

That was the sound of Ranger Rulebook hanging up on me. Or losing cell phone service. I am not sure. Either way, I call back to get repeatedly rejected. At this point, I was sitting in my own darkened house with no electricity, fuming. Since Rulebook refused to pick up from then on out, there's no feel-good ending to this. I just sat there, stewing, until I fell asleep. I woke up this morning with a new vengeance, though. Ranger Rulebook must be stopped.

A Tribute to Reba

So, this particular week of my life, I have been participating in a new form of ridiculousness: summer camp. In my position with the organization I work for, I am the liaison to all things camp in the area we cover. This equates to alot of unnecessary paperwork and my traipsing through day camps with a mental checklist of possible wrong-doings. One particular camp, in a rural area (of Kentucky, I know, right.), is spear-headed by a couple of bumbling volunteers with ill-intentions towards The Man (or The Woman, in this case). A co-worker, whom one might refer to as Strong Sierra for fun, and I planned a surprise visit yesterday afternoon to this particular camp. In theory, we would arrive unexpectedly and "catch" them in any number of violations that they would correct before a scheduled visit from us. After the hour-long drive through no-where, USA, we arrive to find a shockingly, comfortingly normal camp. I mean, it's not top dollar, but it's working. The girls are having a blast and experiencing lots of new, "campy" things. We check out the waterfront, since it has alot of potential for possible safety hazards, only to find almost everything going as planned (Minus a nest of baby mice. Ick.). We then hike about 13 miles uphill back to the lodge (Not really, but it felt like it.) and share some snackies with the kiddos. I pick up on a couple of new faces in the crowd -- mostly because they were grown men amongst gaggles of young girls. I verify their background information and sit back to observe. I notice a little mild flirting between an adult female unit leader and one of these men, whom we'll call William because that was his name and I have no reason to protect his identity. Both, I'm quite sure are married. Nonetheless, the girls just thought it was funny and innocent. Their problem then, not mine. As I'm observing this, Bumbling Director Numero Uno saunters up to us to inform us that there is a must-see skit coming up in a few minutes. Great. We are obligated to sweat through thirty more minutes of sweltering humidity to watch girls hug and talk about friendship... Or so I thought.

Three of the oldest girls at camp are in charge of this jewel of a skit. They gather all of the younger girls around and have them sit in an appropriate area for the audience. Let me warn you, that is the last use of the word "appropriate" in this post. The three girls whip out a boombox and send William to stage left (in the woods, behind some trees). I clearly hear the girls tell him his instructions are to walk into the center of the circle and stand there when the music begins. Williams begs why, with no response. He obliges. Also, I'd like to break in with a special announcement now: Of course, he gets doused with buckets of water at the end of the skit. Yes, it's hilarious, but that's not the good part. Read on. One member of this clever older girl trio presses play on the boombox. A country song begins playing, and here comes William. The great fireball, Reba McEntire, begins belting out a song from the early 90's about a no-good, cheating man whom she's kicking to the curb. Greeeaaat.

The trio waste no time in forming a circle around William and dancing first angrily and then seductively. He stands there laughing. The young girls in the audience cheer as the trio push him around, take off his hat, and verbally spar for his affections. One extra-special highlight of the show was when the trio each fell to the ground in come-hither poses. This continued for the entire 3 and 1/2 minutes of Reba, and, of course, ended with William soaking wet. The crowd roared.

Haha. Funny, right? Cute? NO. Without climbing onto my soapbox for this, suffice it to say that this is NOT the positive, empowering message we were hoping to send out to girls. On the bright side, I'm sure Reba is dancin' in her boots, waiting on the royalties from that performance.