Hollee Actman Becker. Just your average writer/Main Line Housewife trying to make the suburbs happen (it's not going to happen)

Posts tagged with ‘campproblems’

Only six days left til camp starts.

Only six days left til camp starts.


Still waiting for the bus.
Even the dog is anxious.

Still waiting for the bus.

Even the dog is anxious.

The Rules for The Real Camp Dads of The Northeast


You’ve made it through the first week of sleep away camp!

I guess we should have printed you out a certificate or something.

Because as much as we hate to admit it, you’ve kinda been a good sport.

I mean, you just spent over ten grand to send your kid out into the pseudo-wilderness for seven weeks when you could have used the coin to party like P. Diddy in Parrot Cay instead.

But how can you possibly expect your kids to actually succeed at life one day if they’ve never lived 10 for 2 and therefore can’t properly short sheet a bed? Or swamp a canoe? Or build a fire that can actually burn through rope


Don’t all fires do that?


Goooooo CAMP!!!

And you know what the best part is?

There are still six weeks left until the kids come home!

Can you say par-TAY?

I’m sure you can but you may want to hold on there for a minute frat boy.

Because even though we said that thing about you being a good sport, we meant to add under our breath that you’ve been far from perfect. Because we’re passive-aggressive just like our mothers that’s why. And while we’ve mostly got this camp shiz under control, we could use a little backup from time to time.

I mean, it’s hard to write all these letters and emails and stalk the camp website while simultaneously trying to maintain our stick-straight manes and unlined faces and toned, hairless bods. Plus we’ve got our raging pinkberry addiction to deal with and our teacup Shih Tzu to pretend to still love and you know we have that “hernia” procedure coming up next week.

Which is why we figured now would be a good time to establish some hard rules.

And no, we don’t mean that in a slutty Fifty Shades kind of way.

Sorry not sorry.

So onto The Rules, boys!

Here they are, in no particular order.

You know, except for the one we chose to type them in.

Rule #1: Don’t bogart the pictures. OMG we are SO SICK of talking about the pictures! I mean, we barely even look at the pictures anymore! They are like, sooo four days ago! Or at least that’s what we go around telling everyone. But that doesn’t mean we aren’t still stalking the camp website. We know this. And you know this. But if you tell anyone else, we will for real have to kill you.

Also? Please don’t steal the iPad when we leave the room and start looking at the pictures before we do. That’s, like, so uncool. Especially when you start making announcements like “None of him again, today!” or “Looks like they went bowling!” This is totally unacceptable behavior on par with ruining The Sixth Sense by telling everyone that Bruce Willis was dead the whole time. 

You know what else is unacceptable? Asking us to just put down the iPad and come have sex. Do not attempt this. Like, ever. Like, EVER, ever! No. Freaking. Exceptions. Because if we’re still holding the iPad, it means the pictures haven’t finished uploading.


And P to the S: The no bogarting rule also applies to camp phone calls — which are for us, not you — and to rushing the mailbox every day to check for letters. Getting the mail is, like, totally the highlight of our day. So just back the fuck away from the box, ok?

Rule #2: Just keep pouring. Ok. So we’re assuming you know by now what our favorite drink is. And if you don’t, you might as well just stop reading and go make sure the pre-nup is intact. Or maybe hit the wine store — it opens at 9 am, you know! — and buy us a few bottles of sauv blanc or chard.

And by bottles we mean cases.

What? You don’t think we’ve been drinking too much this past week, do you? This is a trick question so you may want to think about it for a minute before you answer. “Drinking? I didn’t notice any drinking,” is what you should say, even as you follow us around the house making sure our goblet never dips below the glass-half-empty level.

Do not even THINK about giving us a sideways glance or tossing off a snarky “Drink, much?” as we down our fifth glass of the night. Or when we spill our sixth. Or when we pass out with our seventh resting on our nightstand next to the ipad. Just quietly collect the glasses when you wake up in the morning, and then rinse them out and place them in the dishwasher like the whole thing never even happened.

Follow these instructions and no one gets hurt, capiche?

And finally…

Rule #3: Do not call us crazy. Because we are not crazy. Not even a little. But you know what IS crazy? Sending your kids away to camp for seven weeks. But it’s also freaking awesome. And yes we know we just totally contradicted ourselves. You wanna make something of it? Didn’t think so. See, we LOVE our freedom. But we MISS our mini-me’s. It’s like having the worst case of PMS on the very best hair day. Or like 10,000 spoons when all you need is a knife.

If none of this is making any sense it’s because we’re completely batshit. Even though we just totally said that we weren’t. But don’t even THINK about mentioning it to us. Not even when it’s 8:46 on a week night and we suddenly realize we forgot to buy a case of Silly String for Visiting Day and omigod the store is closing in like fourteen minutes so you better go out get it for us right now.

Just pretend it’s like, Y2K or whatever and you’re still totally obsessed with usIn which case you will not feel the need to sigh loudly or roll your eyes dramatically or ask us why the fuck we even need Silly String. You will simply hop in your car and just go freaking get it. Oh and could you stop and pick us up the new issue of Us Weekly while you’re at it? We want to find out who the best Karadashian is this week, even though we all know it’s always Kourtney because even when she’s preggers she’s totally the skinniest one.

And with that being said, those are the fucking rules.

Ignore them at your own risk.

But don’t come crying to us when someone goes all Brandi Glanville on your ass and slashes the tires on your Jeep.

And by someone, we mean us.

18461-bound! I think the six-year-old is back there somewhere..?

18461-bound! I think the six-year-old is back there somewhere..?