Tubing Down the Hooch and Other Summer-Time Activities

When my dad gets an idea, or project, into his head, the signature Stieber stubbornness is released in full force.  He will not let go of this idea until said idea is actually executed.  For instance, take his latest summer-time obsession: tubing down the 'Hooch.'  The 'Hooch' is, in fact, the less-than-sparklingly-clean Chattahoochie River that runs through, and around, and about the Atlanta area.  (My geography is not exactly my greatest strength, so pardon me if I'm not accurately describing the weavings and windings of the Hooch accurately.)  Every weekend, for the past month, my dad has called on Sunday morning, generally at an hour where any normal 25 year old who has just been out until the wee hours of the night is still sleeping, suggesting we go tubing down the Hooch.  For those of you who know even the remotest thing about me, if anything, I am a planner.  My OCD-esque tendencies always emerge in my weekly planning, and, generally, my weekends are all sorted out by the time Thursday rolls around.  (I'm working on being more spontaneous though... albeit very begrudgingly.)

The first time my dad asked to go tubing, he sounded positively crushed when I said I already had plans.  "But, whyyyyyy?" he practically whined, in tones reminiscent of a five-year-old child complaining about why he couldn't watch another hour of TV or stay up past his bedtime.  I explained to him, channeling a typical mother's response to this complaining five-year-old child, that some people actually have other plans in advance, and it's not meant as a personal slight or affront; just this thing called scheduling.  I suggested he give it a whirl the next time he wanted to go tubing.  Apparently, scheduling is not something that sank in with my father because, for the next three weekends, he has called either on Sunday, yet again, or on Saturday afternoon, asking about tubing.

Yes, tubing is a pretty fun activity, in that you're lazily floating down the freezing cold Hooch while it's a scorching 98 degrees in the air around you.  (Imagine a frosty ass and sweat-tastic chest, and you've got the picture.)  But, being a fair-complected girl of Romanian origin, I'm fairly daunted by the idea of being directly under the sun's cancer-inducing glare for a solid three hours.  I'm very familiar with SPF 75, and even that couldn't beat so much time in the hot Georgia summer light.

But my dad called again this morning, suggesting tubing tomorrow, and I told him I'd think about.  So perhaps, I'll be writing to you next time with a beyond uncomfortable, boiling sunburn.