Across the Street

December 10, 2018
Astoria KOA

These things are the size of a toddler. At night the raccoons play. 

We have moved across the street from Fort Stevens to the DEE-luxe KOA,which, at least in the winter time, costs about the same. There is a pool, a heated indoor saltwater pool, a hot tub, and several giant chessboards. There is a rec room featuring the latest in mid 90s kids VHS tapes and, on the bookshelf, a Bible dictionary and an illustrated guide to philately from 1966. Down at the other end of the campground, past a zillion tiny “cabins” (cough garden sheds cough) is another rec room with a big sign that says BFB. I thought it probably meant Big Fucking Bats, but no, it is the Big Foot Building, which is utterly deserted and full of Fun Games with loud music playing mysteriously in the background. The campground is enormous and we are almost the only people here besides the many,many KOA minions buzzing around in golf carts and yellow pickups. It is super creepy and I’m enjoying the hell out of it. I just need to get a bathing suit – in December, in Oregon, by tomorrow, hmmmmm, difficulty level 10 – and then I am IN that pool with my astonishing new teal and blue hair. Full mermaid, or, okay, sea hag,whatever, POOL. *

Night sky! Eminently purchasable unique photo that relates to nothing in this blog entry! 

Meanwhile,the dogs are in the truck, because they frown on tying dogs up at KOAs and also Dog Camelot, aka the Dog Mahal, is back in the storage unit. It’s too much of a PITA to set up for just a couple of days, if we could even get away with it here, which is doubtful. Private campgrounds always have a bunch of weird rules about what is and is not allowed and large medieval style tents full of dogs are almost certainly on the verboten list. We have also returned to rainy season weather: ah, the joys of wet dogs and wet truck and wet towels and wet everything. . . but the big dehumidifier works miracles and it is now possible to hang up a sopping wet raincoat and have a dry raincoat in five hours or so! And you know I am an Oregonian now because as of today I have THREE raincoats.

The big news, though, the really big news, is that our time here is limited because. . .

**** drumroll ***

Drum roll. More or less. 

barring any seriously crazy and weird shit going down (which isn’t, okay, a safe bet around me alas) I will soon be the proud owner of a smallish blue bungalow in Astoria!

YES! I GOT IT!! AT MY PRICE!!! and all I need now is a closing date and then, LO, the camper will be in the driveway and we will be inside busily pulling up the carpet. I am very, very excited and can hardly wait to be under a REAL ROOF (albeit one that is going to need some repairs forthwith but hey whatever) BEFORE CHRISTMAS. Possibly even by FRIDAY.

I will not say anymore about this until after the closing though, because jinxes and superstitions – although I will note that closings, which used to be ceremonial occasions of high ritual in which you signed thousands of documents under the stern yet smiling supervision of multiple lawyers or at least lawyer looking adult people, have apparently been replaced by a lot of emails. It remains, however, all very confusing, so I must be buying a house and THANK ALL THE GODS, it is about damn TIME.


Healthy happy dogs with alas all too accurate shit eating grins.  

As as been amply covered in this blog, I walk the dogs about eleventy million times a day. That is a scientific number that is also known as, like, six or sometimes seven. About every two hours, anyway, depending on the weather and whether I can, to be honest, fucking stand it one more goddamn minute. And on these six walks I encounter at least four poops. As we walk I have, naturally, to pick up the dogs’ poop, so that’s Poop 1. And as we walk, I get to learn about other animals poop, most frequently deer, which is pellets, Poop 2, and elk, which is patties, Poop 3, but both of which are around in alarming quantities, like, what exactly do elk and deer DO, besides shit? Either they are shitting constantly or, as they say of mice, there are ten out there for every single one I see, all shitting with gleeful abandon. It’s kind of an insane amount of shit and Django thinks all of it is delicious. Narf, as we like to say, oh god, gnarfly, oh god, I am, like, going to hurl (my 80s slang will never change.) But it is impossible to stop him because the ground is so amply paved in ruminant shit. Sometimes I try and sometimes I just give up, ignore him and pretend it isn’t happening. Either way, aside from the giant cancerous tumor on his ass, he’s probably the healthiest he has ever been. This leads me to occasionally consider creating a miracle cancer cure of elk poop and dead crab parts – CRUNCHY CRAB! IS IT CRUNCHY? I say, carefully not inhaling through my nose – which is his other favorite magical walk snack. Django lives in a charmed world full of wonderful puddles each with its own special terroir and constantly appearing delightful tidbits. We should all be so lucky.

Sure they are picturesque but by my calculations each of these elk are leaving behind eleventy million metric shit tons of elk shit every hour. 

Shit does not end back at the camper either, because my spherical roommate, Okra the Vaguely Siamese Cat, has a litter box which often contains Poop 4, or, as I like to say, a SCHTINKY! Someone has made a SCHTINKY! Sharing 96 square feet – 96 square feet that already contains two sinks and a toilet and a stove and a refrigerator and a table and two wildly uncomfortable seats and a full sized bed (half of it is even pretty dry!) and way too many clothes and cabinets full of cans of soup and bandaids and dishes and all the general paraphernalia of living such as laundry and keyhole limpet shells and a cactus in a plastic tub, along with half empty bottles of red wine and several pairs of wet shoes and, let us not forget, the giant dehumidifier which has transformed all this from unbearable to barely bearable – with a litterbox is. . . challenging. When I myself must use the bathroom, I have to move first the trash can (it’s on top of the toilet; there is no other place) than the dehumidifier and then the litter box (and every cat owner knows that this will immediately,but immediately, make Okra want to take a large shit.) The litter,which is excellent wood litter which I quite recommend, has a regrettable tendency to fly about and coat all things.

Fortunately it smells nice.

In other words, I am become a scatologist, a scholar of shit, and . . . Friday. Friday is coming and it cannot come one damn shitty moment too soon.

*I went in the pool! I wore my most bathing suit looking underwear and a giant black Asheville Pizza t-shirt and it was GLORIOUS.


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