I’m going camping. Please stop laughing.

Actually, I’m going ‘glamping,’ a portmanteau of “glamorous” and “camping.” I’m not sleeping in a tent and for those of you who know me, you’re probably saying, no kidding. The idea of my sleeping in a tent is a bit like is the Queen Mum doing body shots off Prince Philip.

My friends have a luxury camper, which makes me a happy camper. We’re off to an undisclosed site in Maine. (I would say, but I don’t want any paparazzi chasing me.)

The first question is what to bring. Or in my case, what not to bring.

Sorry, steamer trunk, you’ll have to wait until I take a cruise. In 2035.

I am an over packer. We’re going camping until Monday so I have all the essentials – wardrobe changes, different stylin’ hats, an array of sunglasses, and bathing suits, as in plural. I’m not a fan of the wet wedgie. Wet bathing trunks are only suitable (forgive the pun) if you’re in the water. And to be clear, I’m not a fan of any wedgie – atomic or otherwise.

I drew the line at what I would pack that instant, and what I would throw in the next instant. I always start with an oversized bag, because sooner or later, it won’t be oversized any longer.

So, I figured, sitting around a campfire, my dinner jacket would be out of the question. Likewise, with the smoking jacket. And I nixed my kimono. Last time I wore it, it was untied and now my neighbor’s kid is in therapy.

The important stuff always takes priority when packing. Cigars, liquor, the usual. If I could have packed a cheap date, I might have gone that route.

I have night vision binoculars. Why, you ask? I have no idea. Probably the result of a late night infomercial, a credit card and some Jameson. The most I have used them for is to spy on neighbors pets and the territorial bunny family that looks cute but hiss as you draw near. To which I reply, “Have you ever watched the movie ‘Fatal Attraction?’ Rent it.'”

Then I pack my underwear. Lots of underwear. Will I choose a boxer short that day? A boxer brief? Crisp tighty-whities? A thong? I’m kidding. The last time I wore a thong, a kid went blind. Actually, he still has his sight but refuses to open his eyes.

Shoes are another problem. Flip flops are essential, but Tevas are good if you get wet. Birkenstocks are great if you’re listening to the Dead and lighting up with fellow campers. To clarify: by lighting up, I infer that you’re turning on your headlamp. (Which I also packed.) My 1000 sneaker collection will stay home, as I thought to myself, “What would take all the stress out of this weekend? No laces.”

That and staying at the Four Seaons Resort. But I digress.

I did bring camouflage sweatpants, I thought, that way I can hide from the waist down.

I did hear that there was a kidnapping in the woods where we’re going. I understand that everything is fine, though; the kid woke up.

Next Sunday, I’ll share how my weekend went, if I live to tell about it. Pray for the bears. The picnic basket thieves, not the Chicago ball club.

In the meanwhile, a priest, a minister, and a rabbi want to see who’s best at his job. So, they each go into the woods, find a bear, and attempt to convert it. Later they get together.

The priest begins: “When I found the bear, I read to him from the Catechism and sprinkled him with holy water. Next week is his first communion.”

“I found a bear by the stream,” says the minister, “and preached God’s holy word. The bear was so mesmerized that he let me baptize him.”

They both look down at the rabbi, who is lying on a gurney in a body cast.

“Looking back,” he says, “maybe I shouldn’t have started with the circumcision.”

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