Another One of THOSE Weekends at the RV Park

This weekend at the RV park has been another of the "Why am I doing this?" weekends.  The common denominator for everything bad that's happened is kids--unsupervised kids.  Why do parents let kids play in the public bathrooms?  Oh, wait, I know--those kids are supposed to be using the facilities as they were intended to be used.  But what happens is that those very kids, the ones who hop from one foot to another and proclaim to their parents that they have to go RIGHT NOW, run to the bathrooms and then proceed to have water fights, throw wads of wet toilet tissue up to the ceiling (where it sticks like glue), stop up the toilets with anything they can find at hand to cram into them, squirt the liquid hand soap all over the counters and floor, pull down the shower curtains and rods, spit sunflower seeds everywhere (including the shower drains), squirt shampoo and conditioner at each other and all over the floors and walls . . . jeez, just thinking about the clean-up ahead of us makes me seriously consider hitching up our RV and hitting the road rather than cleaning the bathrooms (a required part of our jobs).  We're volunteers, for heaven's sake!  We're used to performing regular maintenance and cleaning in the RV park bathrooms.  But this--what unsupervised kids have left for us to do--is far beyond what anyone should have to do for someone else.  Maybe I should go grab the parents by their ears and drag them into the bathrooms, hand them the cleaning supplies, and then tell them I'll be back later to see that the job was done and done right.  But no, the customer is ALWAYS right. I'll tell you one thing:  We have seriously considered our plan to continue to be volunteer park hosts at various state and national parks.  When people follow the rules, and when children don't act like heathens, the job is fine--even fun.  But on days like today, when we have 10 times the work to do because ill-behaved children have created a mess for us, forget it.  I am about a minute away from hitching up our rig, as I said, and heading out, leaving those bathrooms for someone else to clean.  NOT in a good mood today. (I have heard from many friends that our situation here is far different than it would normally be as a RV park host.  Guess we just got lucky.)

A Battle I Can Win

I swear, I'm going to write a book called You Can't Stop Stupid.  The campground rules, the signs: DO NOT DRIVE OR PARK ON THE GRASS. And what have I been watching, and what did I just go out to stop? A guy gouging out huge hunks of grass with his back tires (all 4 of them) as he goes back and forth, back and forth, trying to park his dooley truck in FRONT of his boat and trailer, which is parked in FRONT of his big Class A motorhome in a site that's barely big enough for the motorhome alone. His argument to me:  "I only have my back right tires on the grass." Yep, you do, and those two tires have dug ruts deep enough to swallow a small child. Besides,your tires are on the GRASS. NO PARKING ON THE GRASS!!!!! We have overflow parking for his truck just steps away from his site, but no, he wants ALL his stuff with him in one spot. (I will win this battle, ha ha.) This promises to be a long weekend.

An Outbreak of Dogs Without Legs

In case you haven't noticed, we are in the middle of an outbreak of entitled dogs without legs.  Just look around you.  Everywhere, dogs in backpacks, dogs in chest packs, dogs in designer "soft" purse crates hanging from shoulders, dogs in strollers, dogs in arms . . . and most of those dogs being taking into places where no dogs are allowed. 

I was about to pick up a head of cabbage at the grocery store last week when I noticed that the woman lifting and inspecting those cabbages was also absent-mindedly scratching her dog (in a soft carrier designed to look like a purse) with the same hand that she was touching the produce with.  I alerted the manager about the dog.  His response?  "Well, we hate to upset the customers, and if we ask her to take her dog out, we'll probably cause a lot of ill will."  Really?  What about me?  Don't I have the right to buy non-dog-hand-touched produce?  Yeah, yeah, I know.  That cabbage had probably been touched by hands dirtier than doggy hands, but still . . .

I'm a fan of the television show House Hunters, a show in which potential home buyers look at three homes with a real estate agent and then pick one to buy (or not).  If you've ever sold a home, one of the first things the real estate agent probably told you, if you have a dog or cat or other furry pet, is to remove all traces of the pet and get rid of any possible pet smells before your house is shown to a potential buyer.  Imagine how flabbergasted I was to see an AGENT lugging her cutsey-wootsy dog around with her in a fake "Gucci purse" pet carrier as she went into each of the three homes with the couple looking at houses.  I mean, here she was, someone who knows the rules of home selling, bringing her OWN DOG into the sellers' homes.  If I'd been one of the sellers and had seen the agent bring her dog into my house, I'd have ripped up any contract I had with that agency.  How did she know that no one in the house was allergic to pet fur?  And how did she know that the owners would not mind the dog running around on the carpet and hardwood floors as the agent showed the house to the potential buyers?  What if the homeowners just hated dogs?  Entitled dog, clueless real estate agent.

Just look around you the next time you're in a restaurant or grocery story.  See that soft, quilted fabric bag with a mesh end sitting on the chair by you or being carried under the arm of a neurotic-looking person?  Meow loudly and see what happens.  Told ya so! 

I'm Tired of the F -Word!

I'm tired of the F-word.  Years ago, that word carried a certain amount of shock value, but no more.  Just like the word "Reeeaaalllyyy," the F-word has lost the effect it once had.  Using it now is more likely to earn you a disgusted look than producing a shocked intake of breath and wide-opened eyes.  

I've often wanted to go up to perfect strangers in Walmart, the grocery store, or at a sporting event and ask, "What is it that made you think your shirt with that word emblazoned on it is appropriate to wear in public?"  My husband won't let me ask that question, however, because he doesn't want to have to defend me in the event that the shirt-wearer takes offense at the question. 

I wonder how parents explain the word when, in public, their young children sight-read it on a shirt (or worse, across someone's rear end) and ask what it means.  Not long ago, I was in a line at the grocery store when a young child not only pronounced the word in one of its forms, but also managed to sound it out along with the B**** word that followed it.  (The kid aced on the first try the other two words on the shirt, "I'm a . . ")  You know what happened.  Mom tried to hush the child, which only escalated the volume and frequency with which it was pronounced.  She'd shush the child, he'd up the volume, she'd try to pull his face into her skirt, he'd push away and repeat in a singsong, earsplitting register, the words over and over.

By the way, woman with the obscene T-shirt, is being a F****** B**** is something you're proud of?  Something you want to intimidate me with?  An honest assessment of your character?     

If people want to deck themselves out with obscenities or use them in everyday conversation, let them do so in the privacy of their own homes, not in public.  I'm tired of hearing it on television, hearing and seeing it in public, tired of it EVERYWHERE. 

Perhaps we should bring back some of the old words to use in an F-word situation:  Rats!  Darn it!  Drat!  Fiddlesticks!  Somehow, I doubt that the F-word users would go for those words . . .  

We Stay Here All the Time

One of the items on my bucket list was to be a volunteer RV park host.  Well, cross that item off, because I am now a park host at a large RV park in Texas, 70 full hook-up sites and on the water.  Most of the campers have two things in common:  the love of RV life and the irritating ability to spout off  "We stay here all the time" (WSHATT) as a reply to any request by park management or park hosts. 

Here's how it works.  We have a list of common-sense rules that we give to campers upon check-in.  Rule #3 reads "Dogs must be kept on leashes anytime they are out of your RV.  NO EXCEPTIONS."  Rule #4 reads "Pets are not allowed in the office, laundry room, rest rooms, or showers."  Rule #5 reads "Pet owners are responsible for picking up their pet's waste; free waste pick-up bags are provided at several places in the park for your convenience."  Couldn't be clearer.  Small words, clear rules.  Below is a small sample of how the WSHATT reply is used:

Me:  Sir, I see that your two pit bulls are running loose through the park.  Dogs must be kept on leashes when they're not in your RV.
Reply:  We stay here all the time.  (Camper never looks at me--just walks away.)

Me:  Pardon me, but you must be out of waste bags.  Here, let me give you some so that you can pick up what your pet left in several places.
Reply:  We stay here all the time.  (Camper refuses bags and continues following the pet, who is leaving a trail like the wicked stepmother did for Hansel and Gretel.)

Me:  I'm sorry, but you can't take your English sheepdog into the rest room/shower area.
Reply:  We stay here all the time.  (I return later to check that area before dark and find wet dog hair stuck to the shower floor, clogging the drain, plastered 3' up the walls, stuck to the sink and mirror, and making a small, wet carpet in a toilet stall.)

Obviously, the WSHATT reply translates into "We stay at this park a lot, and we know what we're supposed to do, but we'll damn well do as we please and have no intention of following the park rules, because WE STAY HERE ALL THE TIME."

In an earlier post, I mentioned the old "Barney and Friends" PBS television show in which no one was ever wrong and everyone was rewarded for doing little or nothing.  Rules?  What rules?  Self-esteem and egos were to be nourished at every turn.  The result?  A generation of WSHATT people, those for whom no rules apply.

I wonder what our supervisors here at the park would say if, when they ask me to take on an extra duty or two, I replied "I STAY HERE ALL THE TIME" . . . and walked away.