christ

Dude,

I haven’t showered in three days, no matter how much chapstick I apply, my lips are still comparable to an elephant’s asshole, and I’m completely and irrevocably in love with 9:30 PM ("lights out").

Being a camp counselor is rough, man. It’s also fun and mildly flirty, but show one moment of weakness, and those little fuckers will have you crying under your bug shit-dusted covers by day one.  I have maybe five minutes to myself a day, a clingy camper who won’t stop asking me if I like her outfits, and a consistently questionable selection of meats at the dining hall (corndogs, meat who’s texture resembles cottage cheese, etc.).  Since the start of camp, I've aged several decades and made up like, 18 behavior-related rules (never thought I'd use the phrase, "Let's please change the conversation from painting bears against their will, Cole").

I should admit though, it gets easier every day. I’m no longer miserable, just exhausted.  Because of my nose ring and the Christmas lights above my bed, the 10 year-old girls in my cabin think I’m mysterious and cool (they want to spend time with me??), and I’m slowly figuring out ways to cope with everything (1. eat 2. Hershey’s 3. in 4. bathroom 5. stalls).

When I was first assigned 4^th and 5^th graders as my campers, I didn’t realize just how young they were until one of them ATE the medal I made for him out of paper and hemp after winning “Best Glamour Girl” in our makeshift arm wrestling competition (his stage cross while holding the “Round 2” sign was d r i p p i n g with sass).  Luckily, I caught him just in time for him to spit the chewed-up ball of twine into my cupped hands, saving us, but most importantly me, a trip to the chatty and butterfly-minded nurse, who, within a half hour of meeting her, had detailed her husband’s 1997 foot fungus episode, called herself a “fat woman on all sides”, and asked me zero questions myself.

For the first two weeks, my co-counselor Scott and I are responsible for seven boys: Carson, Cole, Cooper, Kyle, Ryan, Ari, and Joe.  They like Scott better than me, but that’s alright.  I like Scott better than me, too.  Scott's awesome.  He knows stuff about starting fires, carving bowls out of fallen bark, and fixing bike helmets he’s never seen before.  He’s like a kid-friendly Liam Neeson in three-quarter length pants.

For a while, I’m not sure my boys knew what to make of me.  After all, my only selling points were that I could recite Beyonce's "Flawless" word-for-word and that I was capable of walking from my childhood bedroom to the Chipotle at the mall with my eyes closed, which did little good in kayak or archery instruction. But I eventually earned the respect of a few rugrats during rock climbing day.  Carson, the most critical of the bunch, was inexplicably wowed by my bouldering skills, which are just slightly better than his own, and he called me “practically professional”, which immediately melted me into a flattered soup of candy hearts and glitter glue.

I remained in a state of compliment-induced bliss until lunch, when the shitheads ruined everything by moaning about the gluten-free kid getting a different type of bread on his sandwich.  Each and every one of them complained that he “always gets better food” while double-fisting brownies and churros. These assholes desperately plead for medically-required dietary restrictions on a daily basis, just to get their grubby little hands on puffy fake muffins.

But their whining and refusal to clean up after themselves aside, they're the cutest little dick-kickers, so I guess I'll just have to continue on being their second-favorite counselor, tweezing out their splinters, facilitating slap jack battles beneath their bunk beds, and asking them to spit the sticks out of their mouths because I care.  I might even love them, for no reason other than the fact that I’ve helped keep them not-dead for the past week. 

I hope I’m good at this soon.

Please send whiskey to Avid 4 Adventure CMC, P.O. Box 741, Bailey, CO 80421,

Kay

P.S. These kids are o b s e s s e d with asking about the time and schedule.  You would think that 9 and 10 year olds would spend at least 20% of the time thinking about cartoons and superheroes, but they actually spend 100% of the time asking any of the following questions:

Are we there yet?

What time is it?

How many more minutes?

How many more miles?

What do we do tomorrow?

What time is dinner?

When's breakfast tomorrow?

Why do you have your nose pierced?

They’re constantly begging for information that I don’t know. I don’t know.

P.S.S. OH OH ALSO I got reaccepted to Columbia, which is kind of a big deal.  I've been waiting 9ish months for this, which means I'm officially returning to school in the fall. I'll be accepting any and all kisses and gifts (pizza) thnk u~

FINE

Fine. OK?! FINE. YOU GOT ME.  Camp is perfect, my anxiety was for nothing, Windy Peak is a dream, and my co-counselors are all cooler, better looking, and more interesting than me.  I have a crush on each and every one of them.  

Being happy is like, the loveliest punch in the gut.  At any moment I could throw up a blanket of butterflies and feather boas.  I don’t know why I was given this job, but I feel like the luckiest little suburban bean to be here, huddled in the corner of my cabin with smelly socks and scuzzy teeth.  This place is actually the coolest, and these losers already feel like family.  Isn't that obnoxious?

This week was staff training.  Seven flawless days of camp for grown ups.  I literally spent the entire week getting paid to sing campfire songs and wolf down brownies.  Each day was dedicated to going over and practicing everything we’d be teaching about our core sports, with the occasional light-hearted Don't Sexually Abuse The Children chat sprinkled in the arts and crafts room. We make bracelets! Don't touch kids! At the week’s end, I still wouldn’t say that I know as much about hugging rocks and kissing soil as the other counselors, who were seemingly all raised by trees and L.L.Bean, but I’m prepared enough to teach these little slime-monsters what they’ll want to learn.

However perf this week was, lapping up sunscreen and crumping my way through icebreakers, I still managed to fuck up royally on more than one occasion.  I managed not to bring soap or chapstick, turning my lips into a dirt-dusted blood bath, and my right arm (ONLY my right arm) is riddled with bug bites.  If I weren't already a perfect 10, I'd be a 9.5.

But the real fun was Monday night, the second day of training, when the entire staff camped out along the shore of Lake Wellington.  Being from California, I wasn’t aware that Rocky Mountain nights were less hospitable to human life than a gutted chicken in a freezer locker.  Within two hours of falling asleep, I woke up shivering violently, with no feeling in my face.  Of course my pathetic sleeping bag and jeans + tee combo wasn’t enough to keep me warm while lying like an idiot log on the wet grass with only a tarp in between.  For a very long and dramatic twenty minutes that I was sure were my last, I dressed myself in every piece of clothing I could fit onto my body while squatting in a nylon tent hovering over three other counselors, managing to squeeze on two pairs of shoes (water shoes inside hiking boots thank you very much) while waking no one.  I then dragged what was left of myself into one of the camp’s official 15 passenger vans, where I rocked back and forth in the fetal position for an hour just to feel again.  

Obviously I survived through the night. And thank god I did, otherwise I wouldn’t have had the chance to, just two nights later, have a sex dream featuring one of my coworkers while we all slept together, the chef, nurse, bosses and all, in one room.  Obviously I woke up terrified that I had said his name, or anything at all, in my sleep.  And although nobody ever hinted that anything had happened, I still don’t feel safe.  I’m almost 100% certain that every single one of those bastards is in on a joke at my expense. I should leave.

Goofs aside, it’s spooky how quickly I've adjusted to the whole “always running around in the sun” thing. I didn’t expect that by the third day, when given an hour of free time, that after just three minutes of sitting on my bed scrolling through Facebook, I would become so incredibly bored and uninterested in the screen in front of me, that I'd spitefully toss my phone beneath my pile of granola bars and go to the bike tent to practice changing tires. If you think THAT'S dumb, imagine how stupid I felt when I found myself wishing for a 5:30 AM wake-up call so I could get outside early enough to catch a picture of the morning mist coming off the mountains. Where do I get off acting like such an asshole?

Camp starts tomorrow morning, which means I'll actually have to like, keep a group of eight 4th and 5th grade children alive and entertained for the next two weeks.  I feel nothing.

Good God,

Kay

P.S. I’m so drunk on sunshine I'm not even mad about the gel-like meat grease coating all of our dinner plates.  If you haven’t yet tried day-old lamb fat infused oranges, I highly recommend it before you brush your teeth HAPPY FATHER'S DAY

here again lol

WHAT'S UP BUDS,

Not that any of you give a shit, but I'm jetting off today for yet another job that I'm completely unprepared for. Apparently the Rome au pair gig and yearlong stint as an insurance intern (with a cubicle the size of a clothes hanger) wasn't enough to satisfy my hatred of being comfortable in my own skin.  Six months ago, after having drooled through half a year at home, reluctantly watching Judge Judy and pushing my cat off my lap, I thought it'd be a "fun" idea to be proactive (what’s YOUR idea of fun???) and make some not-mind-numbingly dull summer plans.  After little to no thinking, I decided that I would spend the summer being a badass in the woods: wearing rolled sleeves and pants with dirty knees, identifying bear shit, converting my piss to drinkable water, and using a fucking COMPASS. CORRECTLY.  I figured, “Hey! I ran in high school! That’s outdoor experience! My mother was a forest ranger! Knowledge is genetic! Right?! It's buried in my blood!" If I could kiss my lips, I would.

So after sweet-talking my references, I applied to 10ish different outdoorsy jobs: a Jeep Guide in Denali National Park, a worker bee at a helicopter touring company in Juneau, a summer camp counselor position in Minnesota, which my friend Jack described as “magic”, and a few others I applied to while waiting for my reality check.  I only heard back from half, and rightfully so– I lied recklessly on most applications, like Pinocchio before the whale trauma.  And after a few phone/Skype interviews, I received tentative offers from four of the five. 

Because I could afford to be picky, feelin like a Queen, I slipped on a wig and waved through my options with unnecessary flair.  Denali, Juneau, and Minnesota were all out, mostly because I have a natural aversion to places where fishing is a largely popular recreational activity.  This left Colorado, where, despite having zero experience in rock climbing, mountain biking, or kayaking, I was hired as a multisport Senior Instructor at Colorado Mountain Camp, a residential outdoor education program run by the highly esteemed Avid4Adventure.  Before you start foaming at the mouth, know that I really truly didn’t exaggerate my qualifications. I was honest about the little experience I had, which is why I felt comfortable taking the job.  I may have thrown some glitter-dipped bullshit at the fancy man who interviewed me regarding my “love of all children”, but I tried to focus our conversation on my eagerness to dedicate the following months leading up to camp to learning as much as I could about adventure sports and band aids and shit.

And I almost did that!  I became Wilderness First Aid and CPR certified.  I took up climbing at an indoor gym near my house, and went outdoor a few times as well.  Just enough to learn the basics of safety and technique, and practice some easy routes. I took a couple REI outdoor school classes on mountain biking and bike maintenance, biked to and from work everyish day, and practiced repairing my tire at home (once). By the way, putting that tire back onto the rim was, aside from that one math test in the seventh grade, the most difficult thing I've ever had to do. I took four breaks, cried once, and cursed Our Father Up Above over three thousand times. Obviously I can't afford any of my campers to get a flat, so I'm just gonna have to line the trails with pillows and trampolines.  I also took a shot at trying to familiarize myself with water sports.  I rented a kayak at the beach and begged gear-heavy strangers for tips, and more impressively, I spent the past 20 hours desperately watching youtube tutorials for Stand Up Paddle boarding. Last but certainly not least, I practiced tying a knot for a half hour on the smelly futon until my brother banned me from touching his ropes ever again.

I'm ready-ish. I bought and ate my last pint of Ben & Jerrys, lined the top of my carry-on with at least 30 tampons so the TSA wouldn’t dig around my pack, and whispered my tearful goodbyes to the dust-bunnies beneath my brother’s bathroom sink.

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little concerned about the bite bump still on my right arm from three weeks ago, given to me by a brown widow spider who was CLEARLY flirting with me, but the nurse practitioner at Facey insisted that I wasn’t secretly and slowly dying from the venom. What the fuck does she know?

Anyway, the first day of staff training is tomorrow, and I'm scared shitless, so I really can't afford to waste any more time typing a letter to nobody. I have like, four different How To videos on pause right now. My tabs game is insane.

Fuck,
Kay

P.S. HEY, my 21^st birthday was on Wednesday! I went sky diving and ate a burger on the beach and saw a Groundlings show and then had drinks with some of my closest buddies at a bar that also served deep fried brussel sprouts infused with bacon. HERE'S A VIDEO OF MY JUMP:

bye

Paulina's reaction to the world's best lasagna

//~fRiendS~//

my other half, Ruby~*

wait Paulina literally fell asleep sitting up LOOK

*~~*~HI GUYS IT'S MY BIRTHDAY I'M 20 THIS IS VERY IMPORTANT~*~~*

Due to the recent turn of events, my plans to meet the rugged love of my life, become a bilingual wizard woman, and stay in Italy forever and ever have changed.  Saturday, at 9:50 AM (Italy time, listen I don't know what that means for you), I boarded my flight back to the states.  I was actually lucky enough to book the same flight as Paulina, so we spent a wonderful drugged-up 9 hours from Rome -> JFK drooling on sky malls together.  I'm now home in ~Los Angeles~, after a television-deprived connector flight, sitting on my bed post-AMERICAN breakfast, soaking up the glorious sounds of my mom and brother arguing downstairs.  Also jet lag is a real thing I'm a zombie.

IF YOU WANT TO HEAR ABOUT THE NIGHTMARE THAT WAS MY LAST 48 HOURS IN ROME READ THIS (BUT IF YOU DON'T JUST KEEP ON SCROLLING UNTIL THE PICTURES OK):

On Thursday afternoon, Margherita emailed me and asked if I would be able to babysit on Friday night from 8:45-midnight so that she and her husband could go out to dinner.  She was away in Fano, a town three hours away from Rome, for business, and we had been communicating via email for most of the week.  To be honest, I was surprised, and a little offended, that she was asking me to work on my last night in Rome.  After 3ish months of work and only one day off, her refusal to give me my work schedule more than a day in advance (despite my request for a weekly schedule months ago), working 40+ hours a week (au pairs are not supposed to work more than 35), living according to their irrational cleaning standards (where it was required that I sweep the kitchen after I eat a bowl of cereal), I assumed that Margherita wouldn't ask me to spend my last hours in Rome watching Edoardo sleep.

I politely declined, explaining that my friends had scheduled a goodbye dinner for me a week prior (this was not true but how can you argue with that), and in response, Margherita told me that because I refused to work, she would not be able to host me any longer.  I was told to return my keys to Nonna (grandma) at 1 pm on Friday after dropping off/picking up Edoardo from school.  Paulina and I concluded that she was nuts, decided we would spend the night at the airport, and went on that evening to cause a scene with our pantomime dancing at The Yellow, a bar/hostel that refused to play Diamonds by Rihanna despite my multiple requests.   The DJ was much too busy licking his girlfriend to touch the switchboard.  This was easily one of the best nights of my life.

On Friday morning, after dropping off Edoardo at his ridiculous trilingual preschool, I was pouring a bowl of cereal when Nonna came through the door with four construction workers and the house maid, Lucy.  She walked into the kitchen, clearly irritated, and started not-quite-yelling-but-almost at me, saying something about me needing to wake up "Paige" because they needed to do some work on my room.  Nonna doesn't speak a word of English, and she's ignored my countless requests to speak slowly, so that translation was really the best I could do.  I was completely caught by surprise, for I hadn't yet heard anything about this, but I rushed into my bedroom and shook Paulina awake.  I was in the process of tossing Paulina her pants when Nonna and a couple of worker bees started fiddling with the lock to my door that works as a second entrance to the house.

We scurried to the kitchen, where I was eating my "Extra with Chocolate Bits" cereal, the only food in the house that I could stand, when Nonna entered the room with an armful of my pillows/sheets and dumped them on the table next to me.  She then returned with another armful of my clothes and dropped them on the floor.  She ended up making six dramatic dumpings, scattering all of my things around the house- in the kitchen, on the dining room floor, beneath the front door, before she started actually screaming at me in front of all the house help and Paulina.  If I understood what she was saying I'm sure I would have been livid- as the construction workers were clearly uncomfortable and Lucy was horrified.

When she was finally finished berating me, Paulina took one look at me and said, "Kaylin, let's just go."  So we did.  We packed up my bags, gathering all of my things from various floors and tabletops, set my keys and shattered iPhone (for those of you who haven't been following this blogadoodle regularly, my host mother lent me her old iPhone to use while in Rome- I ended up dropping it and breaking the screen within two weeks and never told her) on the bench, and walked out the door.  We made it all the way to the train station until I realized that I had forgotten my passport back at the house.  But we were lucky- when we returned, only Lucy was home.  As it turns out, she found my passport, drivers license, credit card, debit card, and health insurance card in a very forgettable drawer, and set them aside for me.

Margherita emailed me soon after all of this, with a long-winded report of my incompetence, making it ever so clear that they are perfect and I am wrong.  Because I'm the bigger and better person and I deserve a medal, I said nothing, and wrote out a pretend "Are you kidding me?" response email that will remain safely locked in a word document buried deep within the files of "My Documents" for the rest of this computer's life.

our expert cappuccino-maker waiter man, who claimed he was related to Dracula

Obviously after all of this Paulina and I were a bit jaded (and dirty- we ended up brushing our teeth and washing our frowning faces in the train station bathroom), but we were lucky enough to meet up with the unbelievably charming Ben Harris, who pulled us out of our funk.  One strawberryandlemon gelato, Pope Francesco shot glass, and allergic-reaction-inducing mojito later (Mahmoud- these were absolutely amazing, but Paulina really shouldn't have eaten the mint leaf), I was a happy camper.

Coming home is a relief, really.  These past few months have been... educational.  I've learned loads, mostly how to cry in front of police officers to get them to do what I want.  But the whole expat/au pair thing is exhausting.  Chasing after an over-emotional toddler is one thing, moms everywhere know that, but being taken advantage of time and time again by a wealthy italian women is another.  Also, living in somebody else's house, specifically the house of a couple minimalist clean freaks when used to living like a slob, and abiding by all of their unspoken rules takes a toll.  And to avoid being totally and completely alone, it was important to be proactive in terms of friend-making~ which is tough, ask any unathletic 8 year old.  But I would have to say that the most challenging aspect of living abroad is having to be hyper-aware of my surroundings all the time- so that I can occasionally understand people when they yell at me, refrain from getting lost as much as possible, and avoid standing out as an American asshole.  It's a constant effort, and the only relief I get is lying under my covers streaming Mad Men I know I've talked about this before I'm still on Season 5 nobody tell me what happens.

Unfortuantely, because of the messy ending, Italy now leaves a bad taste in my mouth, but I am so incredibly psyched that I was able to pull this off.  I did what I had set out to do- I had a poor man's adventure, and grew up a little along the way.  I'm quite in debt to mom and pops, due to the occasional mandatory credit card swipe, but that should be taken care of as soon as I get off my jet-lagged ass and find a job.  And if all goes according to plan, I'll be back at Columbia in the spring, eager to wake up early and read and stuff.

Love n hugs forever until next time,
Kay

P.S. my mom bought me some "Welcome Home" shark-themed onesies can i hear an amen