I am a terrible person.

Friday night was DATE NIGHT. It was awesomesauce. Brock and I doubled with another couple. We decided to be thrifty (because we had to be) and drive "somewhere" and "drink some beer and stare into a campfire". So I typed "burning things and loitering in Northern Colorado" into Google and got nothing. Then I tried "Campfires in Northern Colorado". I found a shit ton of campsites which made me feel like I had too many choices and I have no idea what these places look like! and can we can just pull in and find a fire pit? and it is Friday and every place could be full?!?!? and why am I in charge of this???????? After stressing out and swearing I mean sweating profusely (okay both) I made some dip and decided that we should just head up the Poudre Canyon and "see what happened". Poudre is pronounced Poo-der for those non-natives. I can't say it without smiling because on the inside (and on the exterior chestal region) I am 12 years old.

Whatever. We had beer in a cooler. It was all good.

We ended up parking illegally (after dusk) at an area called Picnic Rock, which was the first one up the Poudre Canyon and I desperately screamed "How about this one?", as I was in the back seat and I feared that I would projectile vomit onto the back of Brock's head because I get horribly carsick in the backseat of cars in canyons. My instability ended up working out well for all of us because Picnic Rock had a fire ring and it was the perfect place to drink a beer, listen to the river and star gaze. 

We started the evening with a 90's style senior portrait-esq photoshoot, but our attention was quickly drawn to my husband and his fire making capabilities. 

The "Back 2 Back".
I love it that we both have crazy eyes.

I had picked up firewood and kept telling Brock that I forgot matches, to which he would respond "I have it under control." Lord help us when he answers like that. "Under control" meant that he came equipped with a blowtorch. Do they teach that in Boy Scouts? In record time we had a nice blaze which we pulled our chairs around to prepare for the oncoming calorie consumption and chit chat. After my total bullshit lesson in astronomy and The North Star that I delivered with fake confidence, we all settled into that campfire-induced, glassy-eyed state of staring at the flames. I love that feeling....



Me Man. Me Make Fire.



FIRE.
Me Proud White Man.

 As soon as we were all thoroughly relaxed and laughing and enjoying our rare and precious adult time away from the wee ones, someone looked at a clock and mournfully declared it was time to go relieve the babysitters. In this time, it had also turned from "dusk" to "pitch-ass-black". As prepared as we were with beer and snacks and camp chairs, none of us had thought to bring a flashlight.

My friend's husband brilliantly whipped out his smart phone and allowed the screen to light our path. We made about 678 trips back to the truck, including a very special one, where my friend's husband stepped back against an poorly placed log and fell like a tall pine in the forest. He hit the ground hard, like a 200 pound sack of flour, and I immediately panicked and ran to see if he was okay. All the while, Brock stood paralyzed by his man-fire. Did I mention that said friend's husband just had back surgery two months ago? There was a moment of sheer terror for his safety, but once I realized that he was okay my other persona took over.

I laughed.
I pointed at him and laughed.
I laughed hard.
I can't help it, when people trip and fall, I laugh uncontrollably.
I'm a horrible person.

It started as giggling, then tears welled up in my eyes and I was shaking with that silent laughter... then I guffawed and there is a really good chance that I was snorting by the time it was done.
I'm going to hell.
Could I be a worse human? Apparently yes... because I then, through my tears of glee, I promised him that I wouldn't tell his wife. She was at the truck when he fell and she didn't know it happened. Earlier in the evening he was giving her a hard time about her telling people that he falls all the time and he had insisted that he doesn't.
I felt sorry for him and said, "I won't say a word! Scout's Honor."
Problem is, just like Brock, I was never a scout.

I lasted about 10 whole minutes in the truck on the way home when I mentally relived the moment where this man hit the ground and the giggling erupted again.  I leaned over and said through my laughter "he fell...*giggle*... while you were loading your chair...*guffaw* .... he just stepped back and went down hard...*BAHA!*"
She laughed and smacked my leg and said, "SEE??? I told you!!"
...and then she said, "He is like ~TIMMMBEEEEEER!"
And then I flashed back to my mental image of his 6'2" body going back straight as a tree and hitting the ground so solidly and that was exactly it, and being the delicate flower that I am, I snorted for sure that time.

Then I realized that I am not equipped to ever work with the elderly, I am not a woman of my word and I should not consume so many corn products in one evening.

Here is the dip recipe:

Don't Fall on yer Arse Dip
2 avocados- diced
2 tomatoes- chopped
1/4 cup salsa
1 can corn, drained (I used frozen)
1 can black beans, drained and rinsed
1/4 cup diced onion
1/8 cup cilantro- chopped
juice of half a lime
pinch of sea salt

Gently mix, serve chilled with corn chips and beer.

I'm still bloated and I deserve it.

And to my girl friend's husband: I'm sorry that your wife selected me, a total asshole, to hang out with . And I'm sorry to be such a disappointment. Let's get together again soon! I had a really great time. Thanks for the CD's. You are awesome.

Peace, Love, and for the love of Pete watch your step around me,
Johi