As Kathey Junes exited her high-end Chrysler Pacifica SUV, her excitement grew. She was headed off to the grape outdoors to do some wine sampling and camping with her old high school friends. Now in their 60’s, and fully aware of love’s lies, the gals were off for a gab fest in the remote woods, far away from annoying men and their unattainable petty needs. These women were packing enough alcohol to start an asbestos factory on fire, and without a flushing toilet within 5 miles, they had a cotton field’s worth of diapers to carry them through. Listening to nature’s urges to have children, their fertilized eggs tore the shit out of their excrement organs. A small price to pay to give birth to a bunch of children that tore the shit out of their sanity. Ahhh, life. In reality, it was the inseminator that caused all the problems, and between the 4 granny campers, there have been 9 husbands around before they finally got it ripe: ripe in the bank account. Kathey dumped the tent components on the ground and began to assemble the shiny sticks into an erect pole. The flexible sack was now stretched taunt over the metallic framework and the finished nylon abode offered a rain and mosquito resistant shelter for the geriatric gals. As the empty wine bottles coagulated in the corner of the tent, the whining of the day subsided and was soon replaced with personal experiences. The tent walls absorbed 4 lifetimes of female perspectives on life, love, and lies, all designed to rein in those who were straying too far. It took in the rewards and regrets that life had thrown at these matriarchal warriors and listened in amazement to the stories that were full of sacrifices and suffering. As the alcohol reached its climax and sent the ladies off to sleep, the tent stood sentinel throughout the night and whispered not a word of what was spoken. In the morning, the tent’s exterior was full of dew, yet none was to be seen on the ground. The tent had wept all night long.