No apologies; I'm an indoor girl.

I hate camping.

There. I said it.

In my world, I am way in the minority on this. My husband, Kevin, loves to camp. Good friends of ours like to camp. Inexplicably, my children love to camp. And I can't begin to understand.

Anytime we've camped, we've set up our tent within about 15 minutes of home. That makes no sense to me: We have a house. The house has toilets and beds. Why in the world would I choose to sleep on the ground and trudge several hundred feet to use the bathroom, then spend the whole next day feeling unwashed and cranky?

I get the whole "Kumbaya"-'round-the-campfire thing, and yes, a hot dog and a beer taste pretty good when they're consumed in the great outdoors. But, really, we have a fire pit in our backyard. We have a grill, and we have a deck. Problem solved.

When I was little, I was a bit more agreeable to spending time outside. We were a boating family, and one obviously can't boat in the house. But here's the thing: When you're boating, you're doing something. You're going somewhere. You can drop anchor and swim. You can ski. When you're camping, you're -- what? Sitting in a chair? I can do that inside. In fact: See?! I'm doing it now!

My grandma had the right idea when it came to being a nature girl. She and my grandpa had a place at Clear Lake near ours, and for a couple of years, the whole extended family would go boating together. We'd be at Farmer's Beach, setting up lunch with our cooler of bologna sandwiches, and Grandma and Grandpa would pull up alongside in their cabin cruiser.

There'd be Grandma, waving from the boat, her hair tied down with a scarf that had little anchors all over it and an apron over her slacks. "Kids," she'd call. "Wouldn't you rather have something hot to eat?" And we'd scramble over the side of our boat and climb in theirs, dripping lake water down the tiny staircase and sitting down at a tiny table to beans and wienies, Pepsi, and dessert. The fan would be blowing in the direction of the tiny stove, and Grandma wouldn't have broken a sweat.

When I became a teenager, I loved to, as we called it back in the day, "lay out." And that, of course, took place outdoors as well. But like boating, it involved a goal: A few hours on an inflatable raft in the pool meant I'd "get a little color" and look cuter in whatever I was wearing on my date that night.

But if I'm peer-pressured into camping, here's what happens: There's no looking cute, period. I don't sleep well. Sometimes things bite me, and I wake up with some gross kind of lesion or welt or rash. Often, it rains, and historically, our tents have not been quite waterproof enough. Once, I woke up to my cell phone floating next to my head.

I don't like to cook anyway, so cooking over an open fire holds no extra allure. I don't like my feet to feel dirty. I have a fake knee, and the tissue around it swells more in humidity. The other knee is soon to become fake and it hurts all the time, so rough terrain is a bad idea for the next several weeks.

I went camping quite a few times when Kevin and I were dating and newly married. And although I enjoyed the company a lot, I would have enjoyed it more had we stayed somewhere with a floor and a roof. But you know how it is when you're first with somebody; you're always willing to try new things because you simply want to be with that person. Skydiving? Sure, I'm game. Cleaning out the garage? Nothing could be more fun.

But time passes, and we all know what happens. To look at it in a positive way: As you grow older and the realization hits you that life is too short, you become less willing to spend much of that precious time doing things you really don't like.

Also, at this stage in my life, I'm working pretty hard most days. And when a long weekend comes, the last thing I want to do is spend my time in a way that will make me feel like I haven't had a weekend at all.

And on and on. My family makes fun of me, but they know the truth: I'm an indoor girl, and when it comes to camping, everyone has more fun without me. And you know what? That's so, so OK.

There's an old saying: "If Mama ain't happy, nobody's happy." When dirt, bugs and porta-potties are involved, multiply the potential for Mama's unhappiness by about 4,000.

Kevin is going to try to camp with some friends this weekend if the weather clears. He won't care about packing shampoo and towels and bug repellent and disinfectant wipes; he'll get up, throw on some shorts, grab the cooler and go.

Me? I'll be the one waving from the clean kitchen, with a bathroom a few feet away and a soft bed upstairs.

Kumbaya, indeed.

Do you KNOW how sick I am? (cough.)

A disclaimer before I even start this: Millions of people have to deal each day with serious illness and genuine, chronic, unrelenting pain. I am thankful daily that members of my family and I are in relatively good health. Sure, there's that pesky knee problem. But beyond that, I have so very much for which I'm grateful.

About this cold, though ...

I didn't feel particularly great last week, and on Tuesday morning, everything came to a head. Burning throat, watery eyes, nose that needed to be blown every 30 seconds, and fever. I attempted to slog through my morning routine and ended up pulling a chair into the bathroom because I couldn't bear to stand to do my hair.

By 1 p.m., chilling and having gone through a box of Kleenex, I visited the walk-in clinic. The diagnosis: Sinus infection and infection in both ears. Severe sinus infections, the doctor tells me, can mimic the flu. She gives me a prescription for an antibiotic, and I head home to lie under the covers, not able to sleep because of the constant nose-blowing, but too wiped out to be upright.

And so it goes: Day three.

I am a bad, bad patient. Like most people I know, I'm busy. I burn the candle at both ends, which probably led to my being run down, which no doubt led to the state I'm in. And like most busy people, I assume I'm going to be able to do all the things I have to do without being inconvenienced by constant nose-blowing and cough-drop-eating.

So what happens? I work through the pain. I don't sleep enough. And I assume everything is going to be OK.

But here's the weird thing: As I grow older, I don't seem to have the same recuperative powers I once had. There was a time when a straight five hours' sleep and a hearty meal would have had me on my feet again. Now, eating is the last thing I feel like doing. Walking down the stairs to start laundry requires major effort. Reading makes my eye muscles hurt.

So what to do while I wait for this all to go away?

I whine. I call family members and say, "You would not believe how sick I am," then cough for effect. Last night, as Kevin lay reading in bed, I flopped down next to him and asked, "Do you realize I am really sick? Do you realize this is not normal?"

"You have a bad cold," he answered. "You're also the most impatient person I've ever known in my life. You can't make this go away just because you want it to. For God's sake, just lie down and rest."

So what am I doing? Laundry. Working on a story. Shopping for my nephew's birthday gift. Blogging.

I come from a long line of tough people. No doubt it's the southern-Italian peasant stock. My dad was active, really active, until well into his 80s. When I was growing up, my sister, a nurse -- and my mother figure after our mom died -- would purposely under-react to medical maladies because our mom, I've been told, had been a little excitable about illness. So I got a lot of, "Are you bleeding? No? Well, then, take a baby aspirin and lie down. You'll be fine."

So maybe I don't allow myself to recuperate adequately because I fail to accept that there's something wrong with me; I am, after all, the Queen of Denial. If I were to allow myself to be deeply psychological, I'll admit it's probably due to this: I feel that if I keep busy enough, nothing bad can happen to me or the people I love.

Tomorrow night marks the start of a three-day holiday weekend; maybe I'll really try to kick this thing. I'll hole up in bed with my stack of unread library books and a "Pawn Stars" marathon and get some good rest.

Then again, the house needs to be cleaned.

And I have some writing to do.

And the flowers in the front yard aren't looking the best.

Damn those southern-Italian peasants. I just can't help it.

But, by the way ... do you know how sick I am?

*Cough.*

Like a rhinestone cowboy ... and a short little Italian guy

I read about Glen Campbell in Rolling Stone last night. I knew he had been diagnosed with Alzheimer's, but I hadn't read much about him in recent years. If you know who Glen Campbell is, or if you care about someone with Alzheimer's, you'll want to pick up a copy of the magazine. (You can't read the article on Rolling Stone's site without a premium-access pass.)

The cause of my dad's death in March was congestive heart disease, but he also had dementia. That diagnosis had caused some slight strife in my family; he had been seeing a doctor who had diagnosed him with Alzheimer's, but to most other health-care professionals, and to some family members, including me, he really didn't fit the criteria.

Everyone, though, was comfortable with the fact that he had experienced some cognitive failure, and other physicians' diagnosis of dementia seemed to be something we all could live with.

I cried as I read about Glen Campbell last night, as so much about his story is so familiar. He's younger than Dad was when Dad began experiencing confusion, but the disease seems to be manifesting itself in much the same way. Campbell still recognizes friends and family members; my dad did as well, till the day he died. But Campbell also obsesses over small things and seems to be imagining problems that aren't really happening. That was my dad, in spades.

The Rolling Stone writer observes and writes about an instance in which Campbell becomes agitated over an air conditioner. He determines that the temperature inside his house is too cold, and then goes searching through the house, loudly and in all the wrong places, for the offending appliance.

His wife mentions that Campbell won't allow himself to be calmed by reassurances that the temperature is fine, and that the air conditioner isn't where he's looking for it. So the rest of the family ignores the chaos occurring upstairs and carries on with the interview.

Our life with Dad was much that way the last couple of years. Most of the time, he was lucid and on point and appropriate in his conversation and behavior. Sometimes, though, he veered so far off into left field that none of us knew how to respond. His wife bore the brunt of the behavior, but my sister and I witnessed much of it as well and tried to help as best we could.

Here's the most challenging thing about dementia: People tell you to ignore the behavior. But when it's your loved one slipping into Whack-a-Doodle Land, that's hard to do. (And I don't intend any offense with that term. As you know if you've cared for or helped care for someone with dementia or Alzheimer's, there are times you have to laugh.)

During Dad's last few months until his last 10 days, he was cared for at a place called Edgewater. As he grew sicker, his dementia seemed to become more pronounced. One day, for example, he became convinced that his wife and my sister had sold his house and were going to move in together and put him in a nursing home. Another day, he was convinced that his dog had died and no one would tell him the truth.

He accused me of hiding all the clocks in the room, then changing the time on them. And when we moved him into Kavanagh House, he sat in a recliner and held court with staff and visitors, telling everyone that his wife had bought the hospice facility for $60,000 and moved everyone into it, which was a "stupid move because none of the rooms are joined together."

And a hallmark of people with Alzheimer's or dementia: As Dad's reality blurred, he seemed to become unable to let go of the things he believed to be true. He hung on to the story about selling the house until the day before he died. At times, he was angry with all of us because of things he believed we had done wrong.

Another aspect of the Campbell story that takes me back: Campbell's daughter says Campbell becomes agitated when a favorite washcloth is folded the wrong way and in the wrong place. I usually was with Dad in the evenings, and I'd help prepare him for bed.

The belongings on his bedside table, especially when he was hospitalized, had to be in a certain order. His bedsheet had to be untucked at the bottom. His pillow had to be fluffed just so. It was nothing for him to call me back into his room four or five times to ask me to move his watch a few centimeters or unfold his blanket just so. When the preparations became especially long, Dad would rub his head and say, "Oh, my God," over and over, or "This isn't right." Those were the especially difficult nights.

What do you do when this is happening to someone you love? You pray the medication works. And when it doesn't, you laugh sometimes because you have to -- and often because you're so exhausted that you're hysterical. And you cry. A lot.

The article says Campbell hasn't yet lost his musical prowess; similarly, my dad certainly didn't relinquish all of his intellect. His acuities slowed, as those of elderly people often do. But in the year before he died, he occasionally solved math problems and conversed rationally about politics and the economic downturn.

According to his family, Campbell hasn't accepted that he's been diagnosed with Alzheimer's. Dad never talked about the fact that he had dementia, but he knew something was a little off. He'd say or do something, especially during the times he was hospitalized, then look at me and chuckle. "Why did I do that?" he'd ask.

I remember watching Glen Campbell on TV when I was little, and his song "Wichita Lineman" has always been a favorite of mine. (Shut up -- in the Rolling Stone article, Tom Petty and The Smashing Pumpkins' Billy Corgan say it's always been one of their favorites, too. So, ha.) I didn't much care for "Rhinestone Cowboy," his biggest hit, but I respected that the guy was a top-notch musician. (And he was also, to a girl of the '70s, pretty cute. Check out the end of this post.)

So his diagnosis, along with that of Tennessee women's basketball coach Pat Summitt, has been startling. But we'd better get used to the feeling; as our public figures age, we're going to be seeing more and more of them impacted by cognitive impairment. According to the Alzheimer's Association, Alzheimer’s is the fifth leading cause of death in the United States among people 65 and older.

My family was lucky; my dad's dementia didn't cause him to wander or hurt himself. But when I think back over the last few years, there was nothing sadder than seeing him confused and upset because his brain just wouldn't work the way he wanted it to. In some ways, we lost him, or parts of him, before he died.

I feel for Campbell's family members, and I admire them for coming forward. And I hope these recent high-profile diagnoses will motivate people to open their hearts and checkbooks and support research to cure something that could, before it's all over, rob so many of us of our abilities to do the things we take for granted every day.

What do you mean, no school supplies?

So it occurred to me today that this marks the first year in very, very many that I have not purchased school supplies.

I love school supplies. I love the way they smell. I love the way they look stacked up neatly, with folders at the bottom, then binders, then notebooks, then pencil box, then markers and crayons. I love the sense of promise they convey: "It's a new year! Last year may have sucked, but who cares? Start over! Your folders have horses and hearts and purple bicycles on them; anything is possible."

My kids are still in school, but they're a senior and junior in college now, and for some strange reason, each felt perfectly comfortable going out alone or with friends to buy his or her classroom necessities. I may have been asked to replenish spent money, but my opinion wasn't sought on college-rule-versus-narrow-rule paper or 1 1/2- versus 2-inch binder.

I know my kids, though. Scott's new supplies almost certainly consist of a black spiral notebook, a gray or black binder and a pack of Bic pens. Caroline's undoubtedly include many notebooks and pens in complementary colors, patterned folders, a black binder for chorus, and maybe a set of mechanical pencils. Perhaps she'll throw in a planner or one of those big organizers.

When my kids were little, school-supply shopping was a big deal. We'd grab the list from meet-the-teacher day and head out immediately, spending at least an hour at Target to search for just the right scissors and ruler and Trapper Keeper and Spice Girls or Power Rangers backpack. We'd cap the trip with a lunch at the little restaurant in the Merle Hay Dahl's -- best burgers ever, to this day -- and then we'd go home and organize everything.

And the piles would sit on the living room couch until the day before school, when we'd transfer them to backpacks in anticipation of the rumble of the bus the next morning. And I'd take pictures of the kids every year as they stood at the bus stop, neat and shiny and full of anticipation, with those new backpacks hanging just-so off their right shoulders. For years, Caroline was so small that her bag reached almost to her knees.

This year, they're living in an apartment and a sorority house and spending hundreds of dollars on books. They have to organize themselves, so I'm sure they knew what to buy, supply-wise ... I'm sure they had a list to follow, or at least an email or something. I'm sure their supplies are complete, their backpacks are organized, and they're ready to go. I'm sure they don't need my input...

But maybe I'll just call, just once, and remind them not to forget the Kleenex. In my opinion, the economical three-pack is always best.

So ... what if you woke up in the wrong body?

About three years ago, my friend Karen died, and I ended up coming clean in a blog post about the fact that I had committed a journalistic faux pas – I had become friends with someone about whom I had written articles.

Karen was a school-board member, and during the course of her campaign and her time on the board, we had clicked. We were like-minded and we were night owls, and we found that we enjoyed chatting about things other than the issues of the day. I still maintain that my coverage wasn’t affected by the fact that I liked Karen; I like a lot of people, and I don't like a lot of others, and when any of them have merited articles, I've written about both groups objectively. That’s life in a small town.

Recently, I found myself writing about someone else I really like. We’re not in the same peer group – I’m a generation older than he is -- so you probably won’t see us hanging out. But I’ll certainly end up following the rest of his journey, as he already has impacted my life in much the same way Karen did. That’s one of the great things about being allowed to make at least part of my living as a writer; some stories, like this one, end up making me a better person.

In case you don’t have time to read the story right now, here’s the Cliff’s Notes version: I met Chloe when she was in middle school. She was one of my daughter’s classmates – she played drums in the school’s show choirs -- and to my great embarrassment later on, I assumed she was a boy. Now, as an adult who has been diagnosed with gender identity disorder, she’s taking male hormones, preparing for breast-removal surgery, and living life as a man. (And Chloe, now Charlie, really likes the fact that I spent two years assuming he was male.)

Charlie’s story is on the front page of our community paper today. It’s bound to stir some feelings; one person already felt the need to share his belief that the fact that Charlie is changing genders is an “abomination in the eyes of God.” Most, however, have expressed that they sympathize with Charlie and wish him luck on the road ahead. Whatever your opinion about gender reassignment, the story is worth a read – not because it’s mine, but because the humility with which Charlie chooses to live his life is a thing to behold.

Here are just some of the reasons Charlie Poulson is one of my new heroes.

• When you’re in your 40s, you look at a body you’ve walked around in your whole life and suddenly you don’t know who it belongs to. (Trust me on this.) Imagine waking up every day of your life realizing that your body is not only changing in some not-fun ways, but it’s simply the wrong body. As Cher told David Letterman when discussing her son Chaz, who used to be her daughter, Chastity: “If I woke up as a man, all I’d think of would be, ‘Oh, my God. Get me out of here.’” Charlie has felt that panic every day of his 20 years, and he’s handled his unrest with maturity far beyond his years.


• Middle school and high school are brutal enough when you basically look like everyone else. Charlie looked like a boy – as I mentioned, I assumed for two years that he was one – so you can imagine the teasing. I suppose you could say, “Well, he should have dressed like a girl, then.” Again, to use the Cher analogy, if I woke up one day with male parts but still felt the way I do now – like a female – I probably wouldn’t want to put on a tie or a pair of basketball shorts.


• He is unflinchingly nice. During our interview, he told me about some of the abuse he’s endured, and when I asked him how he had responded, he said, “My mom always told me to kill people with kindness. And I’m kind of a peaceful person, so I never really say much.” Not to overdo the analogies, but to me, that attitude is a whole lot more “Christian” than the epithets that have been hurled at Charlie by some known church-goers. That’s a huge lesson for people like me, who tend to become angry at the first sign of injustice. Charlie truly turns the other cheek, and I think that’s pretty rare.

Gender reassignment is a huge deal, and people are bound to be of varying opinions about it. If Charlie were my child and were undergoing surgery, I’d be worried, and his mom, Suzanne, is. But Suzanne also understands this: Charlie is not “choosing” to become a man. I’m no biologist, but there’s a reason he has always identified as male. And if there’s a way to make his insides match his outsides, it certainly seems like the sensible and humane thing to do.

Think the fair starts today? Think again.

Hey, Des Moines. I have a secret.

Everyone thinks the fair starts today, but it doesn't. It actually started yesterday.

I'll explain.

About four or five years ago, some co-workers and I started something that has become a tradition in our office. We had been charged with going to the fair the day before it opened to pick up tickets for our boss, who had planned a department outing for the next afternoon.

We drove to the administration building inside the fairgrounds, bought the tickets, and noticed something: Some vendors were open, and they were hawking their wares. We decided to explore for a bit and were greeted by folks hanging out the front windows of their food stands, asking us to sample things that would go on sale the next day. We gladly obliged them, and we bought a few goodies as well.

We spent our lunch hour walking around the grounds, enjoying corn dogs and lemonade and chocolate-chip cookies. No attractions or buildings had opened, so we didn't feel guilty about entering the grounds for free; really, all we could do was eat. But that was plenty; we three grown women smiled at one another conspiratorially, as if we'd scaled the fence.

The next year, our group grew by one or two. And yesterday, we hooligans, professional women ranging in age from early 30s to early 50s, set out on our covert operation once again.

It was obvious when we drove inside the gates that our secret had leaked out to a few more folks, but no matter -- we remained pretty pleased with ourselves, and we set out to cram as much fun into our hour as we possibly could.

The moral of the story? You're never too old to break the rules. And when you head to the fair, you have to buy a red-velvet funnel cake.

We parked and headed down the main concourse, plotting our attack.

This mini-restaurant, operated by the West Des Moines United Methodist Church, won our business when the proprietor said, "Come on in and sit down -- we'll serve you!"

We made our selections from a varied menu with really reasonable prices. Melissa was hoping for pie.

Amanda chose a pulled-pork meal. Prices for the combos ranged from $7 to  $9 -- not bad at all for the fair!

Our waiter, Isaac, demonstrated some serious customer-service chops to go with his Justin Bieber smile. Thanks, Isaac!

We didn't hit the midway, but it was looking busy.

Due to a strangely large number of things named "Mary" or "Porter" at the fair, our own Mary Porter grabbed quite a few photo ops.

Yep.

We old-timers remembered the fair train and noted this evidence of its former existence. My kids loved that train.

Dating myself again, I mentioned that rides on the giant slide used to cost a quarter.

c

Amanda posed next to my very favorite ironic fair sign.  Once again, the Turkey Federation's spokes-turkey appears to be promoting ... cannibalism?

I couldn't resist pointing out the misplaced apostrophe.

These cool little calves were everywhere.

On the way out, we found the holy grail.

The red-velvet funnel cake may have resembled intestines, but it was worth all the hype. 

Thumbs up, funnel-cake guy.  Sssh -- don't share our secret.  See you next year.

Think Facebook is a giant waste of time? Ask Dr. Corn.

I have friends who hate Facebook. Whenever anyone mentions it, they don't even try to hide their disdain, remarking scornfully that they'd never allow people to know so much about their lives.

I respect that, and I'm starting to understand that there are basically only two types of people in the world: people who embrace Facebook and people who think it's a super-colossal waste of time.

Here's why people who think it's a waste of time are wrong.

A little background: I was attracted to Facebook because A. I'm a writer and habitual chronicler of events; B. I think in stream of consciousness, which is a perfect fit for social media; and C. relationships are important to me. Facebook hasn't been a disappointment; I use it to keep up with real-life friends, stay in touch with people I knew long ago, and cultivate new acquaintances with similar interests.

Kent fits into category C. He's not a real-life friend, but I have no doubt that I could show up in Earlham tomorrow -- which I might do, Kent; you never know -- and have a magnificent time traipsing through the town appreciating local history. If any of you watch Pawn Stars, Kent is Rick -- a Renaissance guy who knows something about everything. (And he's also funny and a dog lover, two attributes that make him a "win" in my book.)

So when Kent started a Facebook page called Lost Des Moines, I immediately asked if I could join. I'm a Des Moines-history buff, and I quickly was drawn in by photos posted by Kent and others of places that my father might have known in his younger days, but have since been felled by the wrecking ball. The discussions on the page deal with historic preservation, local buildings of historical significance, and people's memories of those places.

A few days ago, membership in Lost Des Moines began to grow exponentially. No one knew what prompted the spike, but the growth was fun to watch. With each new name came a new memory, and before long, people were having long, spirited conversations about everything from the old Jewish Community Center to long-forgotten ballrooms and amusement parks.

A few people also began talking about the physicians of "old" Des Moines -- the ones many of us baby boomers visited during our formative years. It seemed many on the site had been patients of a Dr. Corn, and they proceeded to talk in flattering terms about the care the gentleman had provided.

Suddenly, a woman who was new to the site popped up and said, "I'm here with Dr. Corn right now. I'm reading all your comments to him, and he's enjoying them so much."

It turned out the woman was the granddaughter of the now-quite-elderly Dr. Corn. Comments immediately turned to "Please tell him hello from Barb, whose broken arm he set in 1958," to "Please give him a hug for me. I'll always remember the way he took such good care of my brother when he was very ill." The granddaughter then responded that Dr. Corn indeed remembered little Susan or Leonard or Peggy, who then were transported back in time for a poignant few minutes.

I'm sure everyone who happened to be in on that conversation ended up feeling warm and fuzzy inside at the thought of a kind old gentleman who had given so much to so many, bolstered late in life by the knowledge that he had made a lasting difference in the lives of the children for whom he cared.

Kent and I chatted briefly -- via Facebook, of course -- after the conversation about Dr. Corn had ended. We agreed that we had witnessed a special moment, and what had transpired was Facebook at its best. And of course I found myself thinking of my dad, who hadn't really understood Facebook but would have so enjoyed the memories sites such as Lost Des Moines can provide.

As those of you who are reading this via Facebook know, the site is so much more than it's often portrayed. Yes, I see posts about so-and-so drinking too much and am drawn sometimes into meaningless conversations about a TV show. But for me, Facebook is about the kind of interaction prompted by my pal Kent when he dreamed up Lost Des Moines.

I have the utmost respect for people who want to guard their privacy; there are times, I'm sure, when I should be a tad more careful with mine. But if those of us on Lost Des Moines the other night had been worried about our privacy, chances are Dr. Corn never would have known how loved he was. In return for a few more nights like that one, my anti-Facebook friends can make fun of me all they want.

My own former pediatrician, Dr. Marion Alberts, who's been a lifelong friend of our family. He's almost 90. Doesn't he look great?