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Counter spy
I waitressed in the restaurant of nothingness where the menu was a work of fiction. There was no Coke. There was no bleu cheese. There was no dinner salad and there never would be.
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A cold-blooded killing in the neighborhood
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Take me to a hospital!
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Give me drugs!
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[08/03/99]

Cut me open!
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[08/02/99]

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By Karen Ackland

August 10, 1999 | My husband, two stepdaughters and I are on our way to the camp store to buy ketchup. I think this is unnecessary, but in the interest of harmony I'm coming along.

After Alexis and Jennie examined the ice chest this morning and learned that I planned to barbecue pork chops for dinner, they told me that I needed ketchup. I suggested that these pork chops, currently marinating in homemade teriyaki sauce, didn't need ketchup. The girls informed me that they always have ketchup with pork chops. They can't eat pork chops without ketchup. Besides, I didn't bring enough Pepsi.

This is our second annual Fourth of July camping trip. Last year, when we were getting to know each other, the girls had suggested camping, to the surprise of their father. They are suburban kids, used to malls and fast food, but they assured him that they love camping. I suspect that they considered their father and me too inept to manage a relationship without their help and thought sleeping together in a tent would move things along. On the first trip the girls refused to go on any hikes, but they liked cooking outdoors and were good, if exhausting, companions. Building on the success of that first weekend, we're trying again. This year, though, their father is safely married -- to me -- and they're a year closer to becoming teenagers.

I sit in the front passenger seat, pointing out the sights. "Look at the lupine. Look at the glacier. Look at the volcanic area. Maybe we'll come back here tomorrow." My husband occasionally glances in the direction I am pointing, but the two in the back are hooked up to their respective Walkmans. The only sound I hear is a faint clicking as they play the same section of a song over and over again. I'm not sure why this should bother me, but I wish they'd play the thing all the way through. I feel foolish, like a tour guide on an empty bus. I am momentarily encouraged when Alexis looks up, until she says loudly, as if she'd suddenly gone deaf, "I'm not going up there."

"On your life," Jennie chimes in.

"Boring."

At the small camp store they spring into action. In addition to ketchup they suddenly need Hershey's chocolate milk, vanilla wafers, a giant jar of cheese dip and tortilla chips. I feel powerless to curtail this flood of junk food and buy myself a box of licorice whips.

I dole out quarters and we stand in line for the public showers located behind the store. When we arrived last night, the first thing the girls did was check out the restrooms. When they couldn't find a shower, they wanted to pack up right then and leave. This morning I had to stop them from hailing the ranger as he drove through the camp. They had some remodeling suggestions for him -- add showers. "We're camping," I told them cheerfully. "We get to go without showers and makeup." The look I got made me feel like I was the teenager and had just done some incredibly stupid thing that would prevent me from ever being popular.

Back at camp, Larry and I bring from the car the ice chest and four plastic crates that contain the cooking supplies. In the next campsite, two young women have driven up in a red Mustang convertible, set up a backpacking tent and they're now grilling what looks to be tuna steaks. There are two stemmed glasses on their table and a bottle of white wine. On my table there is a two-liter bottle of Pepsi, chips and salsa, chocolate chip cookies, a can of bug spray, a quart of cream rinse and a pile of damp towels. I'm feeling decidedly matronly -- it's not attractive.

Next page | I want to tell the women that these are my husband's children and I don't like Pepsi