Of Towels, Toothbrushes and the Dog
Photo by Valorie Webster
Mi casa su casa. That’s the rule I live by. If it’s mine, it’s yours. My home, my car, my bike, my love, a cup of sugar, a nice cup of tea, a shoulder to cry on. Whatever I’ve got, it’s yours. This attitude comes in particularly handy when RVing, because when two people and a dog share a teeny tiny little bitty space for 30 days, quarters can get very, very close. So, like I said, what’s mine is yours. Except for three things:
1. My Towel. I know a certain husband who was shown a certain towel, in a particular shade of brown. It was known very clearly as MY TOWEL. Do not use it, do not touch it, do not even look at it. Pretend it’s not there. And to be sure you’ve got this clear in your head, here’s a quiz: What do you do with this brown towel? Answer: What brown towel?
This fine and reasonable agreement lasted about 24 hours, until a certain husband used, yes used, the brown towel. As in USED IT. On his wet person. Very, very bad husband.
2. My Toothbrush. It’s like this: you toucha my toothbrush, I breaka you fingers. ‘Nuff said on that.
3. My Dog. You’d be surprised by how many people have suggested that they pack Pippin up and take him with them. Believe me, I’ve eyeballed plenty of back seats in the past as guests rolled out of our driveway. I know they don’t really mean it, but I also know that somewhere, deep down inside, they want my dog.
Note to such visitors: I own Pippin. He is mine. He is my chattel, my possession, my own personal private property. And I can prove it. Every time he calls, I come, immediately. Every time he wants his belly rubbed, I rub. I feed him, bathe him, dry him up all fluffy with a towel, and take him on long, off-leash romps. In short, I am his bitch. And don’t you forget it.
As our 30 days in a 25-foot trailer wind down, I can tell you one thing for sure: Take this RV. It’s yours.
The RV Tripper 