Hot Stuff Tradition Continues at Camp Dorothy
Camp Dorothy is creating a sweet little August tradition, which I like to call a hot mess. The tradition began last August when Camp Dorothy on the road morphed into two hot babes out on the town. With that experience seared into our memories for all time, we decided to play it safe this summer and stick close to home.
Which sounded like a good idea at the time.
Until the heat that avoided our state for all of July and most of August moseyed into town and decided to stick around for a good long spell and rain on our parade. Which it did. Literally.
The rain part, I mean. Not the parade.
Camp Dorothy’s itinerary didn’t include a parade. And that was a good thing because camp was one busy place. Thanks to the daughter, son-in-law, and their dog arrived a day early after the weather rained on their parade. Literally.
The rain part, I mean. Not the parade.
They were camping at a nearby state park, but traded a wet tent for a dry Camp Dorothy filled with rockin’ hot activities. At least the camp director thought the activities were rockin’ hot.
The camp’s namesake? Not so much.
For example, running up and down stairs to switch air conditioners off and on to avoid a Hotel from Hell situation energized the camp director. The camp namesake, on the other hand, thought attention paid to air conditioning was unnecessary. In fact, she asked for an extra afghan on her bed because she was cold with just a sheet, blanket, and quilt to keep her warm at night in her un-air conditioned bedroom.
I’m not making this up.
Here’s another example. The camp director, the man-of-steel, the daughter, the son-in-law, and even their dog thought watching one sizzling episode of Sherlock Season 3 per night was the pinnacle of each day’s activities. The camp namesake thought the theme music was her cue to go to bed. In an un-air conditioned bedroom. Under a sheet, blanket, quilt, and afghan. With the door shut so the air conditioned air from the living room couldn’t get in.
Unless there was popcorn.
Then the camp’s namesake was at the table. Literally. At least until the camp director announced it was time for physical therapy exercise. At which point the camp namesake immediately felt weak, tired, head achy, and generally sick enough to beat a hasty retreat to an un-air conditioned bedroom where she burrowed under a sheet, blanket, quilt, and afghan.
Unless one of the following dangled at the end of the exercise stick.
Uno. Skippo. Judge Judy. Wheel of Fortune. Polish sausage. Fresh peaches. BLTs. Lemon zucchini bread. Corn on the cob. Watermelon. Peach pie. Cucumber-onion salad.
Upon reflection, the camp director sees a theme developing.
Which means that before the next August session of Camp Dorothy rolls around, come rain or shine, come hell or hot weather, the camp director will schedule exercise first, food second, exercise third, food fourth, and exercise fifth. Sprinkled with liberal dashes of Judge Judy, Uno, Vanna, Skippo, and Pat. All rolled together in a sheet, blanket, quilt, and afghan served in an un-air conditioned bedroom. Because tradition matters at Camp Dorothy.
Even when it’s one hot mess.
