Karen's Page

After cheating you loyal readers out of Karen's Page last issue (an ad came in at the very last minute as two pages instead of one, so I had to give myself the boot), I feel compelled to make it up to you by sharing some VERY DEEP THOUGHTS.

Except that I don't have any. No, not for the usual reasons (I don't have enough room to even go into those) but because summer is finally here. For the next three months, the most perplexing question I plan to answer is, "Lemonade or iced tea?" Last summer it was "Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough or Chocolate Fudge Brownie?" But thanks to Ben & Jerry's Half Baked 2 Twisted flavors (two ice creams in one--is this a great country or what?), now I don't even have to worry about that.

People often ask me what job I'd want if I weren't doing Girls' Life. I'm always sure I should answer something like, "Oh, I'd probably be a rocket scientist," except I'm still slightly unclear as to what rocket scientists actually do. Instead, I give you my real answer--I'd be a Grosse Pointe Yacht Club day camp counselor. I know this because I once held the job title for three glorious summers. My day started at the crack of 8:30. I'd crawl out of bed, throw on my bathing suit, a polo and some shorts as my friend and co-counselor Teri honked the horn of her ancient convertible VW Bug (no, not the new kind--one of those cool old-school Bugs) in my driveway. We'd slam a couple Diet Cokes in a vague attempt to wake up and jam some Beastie Boys as we drove the five minutes along the lake.

Grosse Pointe Yacht Club's day camp was divided into two groups--the cute little 5-, 6- and 7-year-olds (they were called Guppies) and our group, the 8- and 9-year-olds, called Minnows. Every morning, we'd meet our Minnows at the flagpole in front of the Club. Once we had collected the nine boys and seven girls that made up our group, we'd parade down to our air-conditioned camp HQ in the basement of the club, which always seemed to smell like musty fish. As we passed the pool area, I'd take a quick dive in to "test the water." In the three years I worked there, I don't think anyone figured out that "testing the water" was my version of "taking a shower."

Every summer our boss, a cool teacher named Michelle, told us to divide the session into "theme weeks," like International Week, Sports Week, Animal Week and so on. Each day had a theme, too. Then we were supposed to come up with activities based on the themes. I think this lasted about a week every summer. While we'd do our best to make Popsicle stick Eiffel towers on France Day, nobody ever really got into it. Somehow or another, the theme would quickly turn to Whatever-Karen-and-Teri-Want-to-Do Week. Luckily for our campers, that didn't include Wash Teri's Car Day (though we were tempted). Instead, we filled our days weaving friendship bracelets while listening to Phish on the boom box, playing rounds of Marco Polo and conning the Harbor Patrol guys into taking us out in their boats for inner tube rides. Occasionally, we'd attempt bad tennis, while forcing the pros to chase our errant shots over the back fence. Needless to say, fellow club employees hated us--but the campers loved us.

Which was kinda funny because the girls would try to get us to take sides in their cat fights (we'd tell them to sit in the baby pool until they could act mature). And the boys would get rowdy, running around and sassing us. Unfortunately for them, we'd run right after them and be even more rowdy. It wouldn't be long before they'd surrender and ask if they could just sit quietly on a towel and chill.

Our friends thought our jobs sounded miserable. Chasing after kids all day, playing endless games and getting covered with blue paint handprints? No thanks. But to Teri and me, it was heaven. We got to spend our summer doing what very few people get to do anymore--just hang out and goof off.

These days, I spend summers indoors, sitting at my computer, making sure another issue of Girls' Life comes your way. But if I could somehow have both of my dream jobs, I'd be writing you in a soggy bathing suit. Pass the sunscreen!