Unresolved Resolutions

Happy New Year!

It is the time of year to write down all of the intentions that you plan to resolve for yourself during the next twelve months.  Intentions that are usually fueled by 98% self-esteem issues, coupled with 2% extravagant dreams developed by watching tricky television advertising and internet marketing schemes.

Historically, celebrations of the New Year began with the Babylonians over two thousand years ago. Around 153 B.C, the Romans brought Janus (hence January), a Roman god, to the party and apparently initiated the tradition of ‘looking forward’ into the New Year….thus, the invention of the New Year Resolution.

I hate you Janus. I hate you and all of the unresolved good intentions that cause incredible amounts of guilt in ridiculous Americans such as me, each and every New Year.

In protest, I have decided to make a list of all the items that I tend to leave unresolved in my life during 2013. This is not only for me, but for the good of the general intellect. I hereby decree, down with Janus and make now the time of New Years Un-Resolutions.

Next year, I intentionally intend to leave unresolved:

All and any family conflicts that result in quantitative levels of discomfort, disappointment, or compel one to visit the bar fridge.

My cholesterol, sugar, thyroid, etc…. levels.

Personal issues that result in a high level of disorganization.

My checkbook.

Whatever it is growing in the upstairs shower.

Anything to do with my children behaving in odd manners or parenting issues that may require said children to necessitate therapy in their adult lives.

Laundry and every non-matched sock I sadistically keep in the sock basket that keeps me thinking that someday, maybe someday, its partner will return and our family of cotton will be made whole again.

My inability to recall in a timely manner most birthdays and tax deadlines.

Flab issues of any kind, in any location, due to gravity or the occasional stolen Little Debbie Swiss Cake Roll.

Multiple household repair items.

The half-written novel on my hard drive that annunciates my inconsistency, each and every time I turn on my computer.

 

This is simply the list I can share with the general public, trust me, there are more unresolved issues I plan on sharing with my medical doctor (apologies ahead of time) and 1-800 dial therapist…but I can honestly say….

 My wish for you is a Happy, Unresolved, No-Guilt, New Year!

Ahead with 2013!

The Truth About Scurry

 

It began as an innocent reminiscing during a wonderful campfire at our hideaway in the great Upper Peninsula of Michigan.

After a few warming beverages, my husband and I looked across the flames toward my oldest son, just turned thirteen. You know the age… attitude dipped in hormones and covered in acne. Admiring the well-adjusted boy he was, and as all good parents often do just for fun in the deep woods of the great north, we decided to rock his little world and tell him one of our families’ deepest, darkest, and most horrid secrets.  We revealed to our son the truth about Scurry the Hamster.

Now Scurry was my son’s first pet. This pet was your average hamster and had actually passed into hamster heaven about four years prior to the campfire. The conversation went a bit like this:

Steve: “Son, your mother and I have decided that it is time for you to know the truth about your hamster Scurry” (I proceed to crack up….)

Sam: “What truth Pa?” (My son does not actually refer to my husband as “Pa” but it works better in this story).

Steve: “The truth son, is, …..well, the truth is that your beloved hamster buried back home in the backyard is not really, truly, Scurry.”

Sam: “Pa, this is not some weird Pet Semetary story is it? Don’t freak me out in the woods up here.”

Steve: “No, son, Scurry is not of the undead. It is just that the Scurry buried there, is not actually the original Scurry number one.”

Sam: “What?!” (Now, I am laughing so hard, I head to the outhouse)

Steve: “Son, let me tell you about a boy, a young boy, say you, having a fourth birthday. All you asked for was a tiny, disgusting, little rodent for your special day. Your mother insisted for some reason that it was imperative for your little dream to come true (yes, this is all really your mother’s fault in the end, just a cliff note). So I bought you the cutest, littlest hamster one could buy at the pet shop and fulfilled your wildest dream. You were ecstatic! You loved that disgusting thing and named it Scurry. I have never seen you so happy since son. It was a magical day. Now, let’s just admit here in the light of this campfire, that the night was not so magical for Scurry One. He croaked sometime after Jay Leno and before Conan O’Brian (this was before he moved to TBS, another tragic story I will share another time) and your mother began a supreme freak out.  I was able to calm her down and we devised a diabolical plan. We told you in the morning that Scurry had been so happy to meet you that he had fell asleep exhausted and would be just fine when you arrived home from pre-school. “

Sam: “Scurry….was…..dead??? What? You lied to a preschooler?”

Steve: “Yes, son, quite easily. I then missed a day of work and headed off to purchase Scurry Number Two.”

Sam: “So that was how he got so much bigger that day!”

Steve: “Yes, son, I bought a much older and stronger hamster that would be able to sustain life for more than three hours.”

Sam: “So, I have Scurry Number Two buried at home Pa?”

Steve: “Well, don’t get ahead of yourself son. Scurry Two did live eight long and glorious months before the escape.”

Sam: “What??? I remember him getting out, but he didn’t die!”

Steve: “Well, actually he did. Apparently while gallivanting around in the basement for the three days that  we were looking for him…he feasted on a bit of D-con, the end was quite brutal….thank goodness you were at school.”

Sam: *Gasp*

Steve: “We told you he was so tired from running around the house, that he was exhausted and sleeping. So I once again missed a day at work for a six-dollar rodent and brought home Scurry Number Three”

Sam: “So Scurry Three lived three more years and is buried in the back yard Pa?”

Steve: “Now, you keep gittin (My husband does not often say ‘Gitin” but again, works best for the story.) ahead of yourself son…Scurry Three did live the longest out of all of ‘em”

Sam: “All of them???? For the love of Pete Dad!”

Steve: “Well, Scurry Three was actually murdered by your sweet mother. After escaping for that week back in ’02, she found him nested in her brand new carpeting. A hole clear down to the sub floor….a five hundred dollar repair…had no idea your mother could punt kick that far……very impressive.”

Sam: “So, Dad….what number Scurry was actually buried during the funeral of 2003? The one that I still need therapy over? And Mom is a hamster killer??

Mom: “I prefer rodent eliminator son.” (This was another lie, I never killed that hamster…..he just died…..so I say(insert evil laughter))

My husband took a moment to try and count on his fingers….I was laughing so hard I could not breathe.

Steve “Let’s just say….it is five or six times a whole lot a love son…..a whole lot of hamster love…”

We plan on starting that therapy for the kid next week. Mission accomplished.

My Christmas List

Ah Christmas, the holiday that used to be about the birth of Jesus.

Now it seems to have become an amazing catch-all event that even the most committed atheist is able to display a manger in their home and call it ‘the ol’party at the barn’.  We Christians that try to hold back the flood of consumerism that has hallmarked this great day, are able to accomplish it with success in some manner.  In my house, we sing Happy Birthday to Jesus every Christmas morning, honor Christmas Eve, but I am certain that as a group, we could do better to hold the day to its true and historical purpose. I must admit personal flaws that I have with this issue, because when it comes right down to it, I must admit, I still enjoy a good present.

So in the spirit of ultimate consumerism, I have prepared my list for this year, just in case you all have not gone out and purchased something for me yet! (Becuase it is almost Thanksgiving and you should be done with your shopping!)

All I want this year is:

·         An invitation to Nancy Pelosi’s retirement party.

·         A car cocooned in bubble wrap for my soon-to-be sixteen year old driver.

·         A two hour recovery time for multiple elective surgery procedures.

·         A super sci-fi ray-gun to zap people in the school parking lot that have offensive stickers on the back of their cars that my children read on the way into school.

·         A super sci-fi ray-gun to zap people anywhere for ostentatious abuse of Lycra.

·         Super-charged Febreeze device that takes the stench out of the gym clothes that recently walked themselves home from the High School locker room.

·         On-demand Mojito tap in the fridge for the summer.

·         On-demand Irish coffee taps on the Mr. Coffee for the winter.

·         A super sci-fi ray-gun that zaps people who exhaustively use the British word “spot-on” and are not British.

·         A suicide note from my son’s stinky rabbit.

·         The personal masseuse (a strong and sturdy Finnish woman named Helka) my husband promised me last year but did not seem to end up under the tree.

·         A super sci-f ray-gun that zaps me every time I say, “sure I can help out with that *fundraiser!” (*Insert event, book fair, bake sale, car pool, overnight-camping trip….you understand the point here.)

 

Now is that so much to ask?

 

My wishes for you are a very Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukah, Kwanza, Grand ‘ol Party at the Barn, or whatever you celebrate, is the very best it can be!!!

 

Marie Sarchet

Field Trip Duty

The following story is 100% true. Well, maybe 98% true. It happened years ago, but I am just now able to write about it….I apologize in advance.

It was my turn to chaperone the first grade field trip to the community pools.

My husband and I usually  arm wrestle, blackmail,  or Rock/Paper/Scissors to see who has to go (uh, I mean, we are vying for who is lucky enough to attend), but since the man was still experiencing post traumatic stress syndrome from his recent field trip with a hundred fifth graders traipsing all over Mackinaw Island, (the highlight of which was a slightly off-meds young man that decided to throw his bicycle into Lake Huron on the far side of the island), we both knew that it would be I, accompanying my youngest son along with three of the first grade classrooms from the North Ohio Elementary School to the community pools.

The trip began with my son begging me to pretend that I was someone else’s mother so that I did not embarrass him while we sat on the bus to the Sportsplex. Apparently I have been known to humiliate my children in public by doing horrific things to them, like kissing them good-bye or holding their hand, in the presence of their friends. The teacher asked that I sit with the other naughty kids up front while she sat with my son in the back of the bus… I guess that was a colossal hint, the OTHER naughty kids.  I spent fifteen minutes being peppered with questions by a six- year-old hoodlum who wanted to know my address and asked me repeatedly if I knew how to set things on fire like he does. In order to quiet the lovely child, I gave him the address of a business we were driving past. Three weeks later there was a serious arson at the location….coincidence? I think not.

After arriving, the kids grabbed their Wal-Mart bags stuffed with bathing suites and towels their parents could only hope to see again and headed to the locker rooms. It was my job to help the girls change into their swim suits and escort them to the poolside. Forty-seven of them lined up to change in the one and only bathroom stall. I tried to comfort them by announcing that we were all girls so that it was okay to change into our suits in front of each other. As I proceeded to undress, a little girl next to me began to cry, others pointed and laughed. I grabbed my Wal-Mart bag and got in line. Twenty-five minutes later we were all ready to go. I tried to skip out on the cold shower, but was busted by a tiny tot hollering at me, “you’re gonna get germs in the pool grandma!” I proceeded to communicate to her that I was not yet a grandma as I cranked up the cold water over my body and her little head.

I arrived on the deck of the pool to find my son being given a “talking to” for running around by a crabby-looking lifeguard. Apparently it must not be enjoyable to guard eighty-eight post-kindergartners and the clueless parents that accompany them. My son’s teacher also noticed the tongue lashing and gave me that look. You know, the look that says, “that kid will either be president or in prison someday”. Teachers are so optimistic for our children, we parents know better.

So thus, as there are two pools in our natatorium, the cold pool and the warm pool, I was given my assignment…yes, you guessed it, the cold pool.

We were in the pools for exactly three minutes and twenty-two seconds when an evacuation erupted from the warm pool not unlike the beach scene from the first ‘Jaws’ movie. For a moment, I scanned the area for that infamous dorsal fin. But alas, the truth behind the evacuation was worse than the presence of a man-eating, carnivorous, and  blood-thirsty fish. The lifeguard standing on the edge of the pool answered my quizzical look by whispering loudly…… “fecal matter”. The terror.

I immediately scanned the peripheral of my personal space and to my pure unadulterated revulsion saw what resembled Bill Murray’s Baby Ruth bar in the movie ‘Caddyshack’ located about twenty-four inches from my big toe. I yelled for the lifeguard and pointed. She grew ghastly and instantaneously pale, grabbed her mega-phone and yelled, “PLEASE EXIT THE LARGE POOL!”  People again exploded out of the cold pool. My doctor’s husband, who was also chaperoning, resembled Jesus crossing the lake as he bolted out of the deep end. I however, was trapped. The ‘matter’ blocked my exit to the steps, and dozens of children were spilling out over the edges blocking my only withdrawal over the side. What resulted was that I was the last person to escape and hit the soapy shower. The children, who had spent all of six minutes total swimming on their field trip, were crying. Some kids, who were suspiciously not crying, were busily trying to discover the culprit. Which classmate was it? Who was able to accomplish the amazing feat of pooping in two pools in less than six minutes? The world may never know.

 After soaping and disinfecting us all for thirty more minutes, we begged the bus driver to divert for ice cream to try and calm the weeping. Although clearly traumatized, the children and the parents felt a little better after the treat, but not much better. Few slept well that night. The teacher was slapped with a three hundred dollar fine, and retired shortly after the field trip.

I took my son home early that day. Of course I had to ask the question…..”Son, please tell mama that you were not the mad pool pooper today”

My answer, “Geesh mom, no way! Please tell me it wasn’t you, because that would be so embarrassing!”

The kids are going to the farm in a few weeks; I plan on contracting the chicken pox.

Heaving It For The Holidays!

It’s October and it time to hit the treadmill!

As the man and future men in my house hit the woods of the Upper Peninsula and Northern Michigan this fall, I too, have an autumn tradition. I attempt (note the word ‘attempt’, which loosely translated from the original Latin scrolls means, ‘was going to hit the gym one morning after drinking too much coffee and having a false sense of confidence and possible sugar-initiated energy boost from using an extra hazelnut cream packet’) to lose the twenty pounds that I intend to gain from eating over the holidays.

It is a queer practice to be certain. Why not just eat less during the festive season? Make sure you take one less piece of nutty fudge, or pass over that extra load of sausage stuffing in order to keep yourself fit?  Why not pass on the fatty, deep-fried goodies? Pay no heed to the bacon-wrapped chestnut, bacon-wrapped tenderloin, bacon-wrapped bacon? Why not?

Why Not???? Because I do not WANT to! I LOVE eating over the holidays!  I love stuffing myself exactly like I love to stuff that holiday turkey!  Wrap it all in bacon I say! I would wrap myself in bacon if it weren’t so expensive and would make the dog go mad. Let loose! Cover it all in peppermint, chocolate goo, and baked marshmallows! Yowzah! (I should probably cut back on the caffeine.)

Eating light at the holidays should be a criminal offense. Seriously, anyone caught even whispering,“Oh gosh, I have to pass on dessert, sooooo stuffed” or “really, I cannot eat another meatball, they go right to my thighs” should be thrown into prison immediately.  I once saw someone bring their Jenny Craig meal to the holiday office potluck….I purposely sat next to her and tallied up my weight watcher points for my meal. “Three thousand and seventy-two”, I announced as I crunched on my Christmas tree made of rice crispies, M&M’s and butter cream. She literally drooled on the spot.That was wrong; I should not have had to torture that woman so horrifically during the Yuletide.  There are some things that are sacred and consuming fatty foods to commemorate the birth of Our Lord is one of them.

Holiday food is a little bit of heaven right here on earth.  Except for Egg Nog. Egg Nog is a product from hell inserted into the season from Lucifer himself. (My apologies to those who dwell in the darkness and enjoy Egg Nog, you do realize that there is something wrong with you. You simply cannot coat evil in nutmeg and call it good.)

Holiday fare has purpose beyond general yumminess. There is purpose behind the reason my relatives bring a freight car worth of appetizers to the annual Christmas party. Finger foods are perfect for shoving into your face to avoid awkward moments at family gatherings. I once crammed ten broccoli cheesy bites into my mouth while listening to my unlatched second cousin explain how she is financially supporting her almost-a-model-boyfriend in his pursuit to return to school for graphic arts (aka pin stripping custom vans). I had to dive into the  crab puffs when she explained why Fabio couldn’t make the party on account of having to spend the day with his two kids and baby mama by order of the DHS. (Okay, I confess, I also hit the spiked cider on that one too.) Aunt Nora's play by play herniated gall bladder surgery required serious bacon that may actually shorten my life span.

Regardless, my point is made. Eat up and be merry. It is the law.

Okay, have to run. Honest. I may try and hoof an extra mile in the spirit of an herbed cream-cheese ball shaped and formed to the likeness of Frosty.   

See you at the parties!!

Cool Mom Blues

When I was a kid, my mother had this friend who was super cool.

I thought she was way cooler than my mom. My mom had no idea about the latest music, latest clothes, who was who in pop culture etc….(I mean gosh mom how can you NOT know all the words to “Kiss Is On My List” by Hall & Oates, the BEST song EVER!!!) My mom worked forty plus hours a week, drove us kids everywhere every stinking day, and cleaned, cooked…..you know, all the fun stuff. Having no appreciation, as most kids do not, for all the hard mom work, I swore an oath way back then that I would make certain that I was a super cool mom whenever I had kids in the future.

Move ahead in time thirty years….I am now the mother of three children. I have decided to do an inventory to see if I have turned into the “super cool mom” I was destined to become.

Cool Mom Checklist:

• Cool moms would possess a tattoo of some sort, somewhere on their person. Preferably something cool written in a foreign language that they do not speak, nor understand, save for that prolific statement written on their thigh. 

Sadly, I fall short of this requirement. I do have a scar on my calf from burning my leg while trying to look cool on a motorcycle. Does that count? I give myself a NO on that one.

• Cool moms would know the latest top 40 hits by heart and be able to sing along with the children at least two paragraphs of the latest funky rap.

I have not been ‘funky’ since that case of athletes foot back in ’01. Also, apparently no one uses the word ‘funky’ anymore.

• Cool Moms dress in the latest fashions challenging Heidi Klum and those Kardashian girls as fashion icons.

 NOPE. Just NOPE. Let’s move on.

• Cool moms bake.

I burn….thus that would be a NO.

• Cool moms let their kids do “fun stuff”. According to my sons, that includes many activities that require varying degrees of absolute danger. Climbing, hanging, jumping on, off and over things with motorized vehicles, using multiple types of firearms and weaponry, preferably with or against a brother….are all examples of “fun stuff”.

Thus, on this one I again earn a whopping “NOT COOL”

• Cool Moms would be on Pinterest and actually have made something or bought something that they have pinned to the “For The Children” Board.

That would be a no. Do not even have a “For The Children” Board. It is all about me.

 

Turns out, I am just like my mom, working hard, driving kids around in my sweat shirt that has a pizza stain on the arm. (Okay, she never had the pizza stain, I have added that). There may be hope for me as I am mentored by many really cool moms that meet some of the requirements above.

But for now, I am so glad to just be me, as un-cool as I am…thanks Mom!!!

The Wonder of Wal-Mart

I am a wonderer of wonderments.

There are many things that I wonder about on a daily basis. From morning until night, curiosities and marvels cross my path. For example, I wonder how it can possibly be that I always owe at least ten dollars in late fees on my movie rental account at the Family Video? I pay on that ten dollar late fee every time I go in that place, and yet, the late fees never decrease…fascinating.

 I also wonder why in the world our creator decided to deplete the estrogen levels in women over 40. What is that cruel joke about? Is that a Garden of Eden thing? Is God still ticked off about the snake and the apple? I thought giving birth to bowling bowls was payback enough, yet here we are saddled with night sweats and an extra fifteen pounds that can only be removed with the aid of a licensed physician and surgical equipment. He is still ticked.

I wonder how in the world I am capable of watching the movie Pride and Prejudice fifty-seven times. How is it possible that a mind see a thing over and over again, and yet, I know without a doubt that if the dang movie is on the Oxygen channel tomorrow, I will watch it yet again, fifty-eight times and counting?

Nothing stirs the pondering in my brain more than a venture to the local Wal-Mart. You know, the store that you claim you never visit, yet I see you there on a bi-weekly basis…no worries, I won’t tell.  Our local Wal-Mart is a fine store, we know the manager, a great guy who really loves his job and has great employees. BUT! (You knew there was a ‘but’ coming) it is a looney-tune crazy kind of establishment. It doesn’t matter if you hit the Wal-Mart in Gaylord or Chicago…the crazy is consistent.

I wonder if Sam Walton had any idea what his retail creation would become since opening that first official Wal-Mart in 1962. I wonder if he knew how much stinking money his kids and grandkids would have today. I mean, those Walton kids are so rich; they send Mitt Romney cash in his birthday card.

I am curious as to why, whenever a child under the age of seven enters a Wal-Mart, he or she has an insurmountable urge to emotionally implode. You can travel in every aisle in any Wal-Mart and witness exasperated parents and a toddler in the middle of an epic meltdown.

Why is it that any conversation you may have with friends and neighbors that you happen to ‘non-run into’ at the Wal-Mart, is open for all who may be walking by to join into the dialogue? You may be having the most personal of conversations, and any yahoo walking past will feel the need to weigh in.

                Marie: “Yes Kari, I just had to put my ninety-year old mother into a nursing home, it was very difficult”

                Yahoo: “Oh my kids tried to put me in a nursing home…told those little b-&*7! they would not get one dime from the trailer if they even thought about it!”

                Marie: “Thank-you for that…will keep it in mind”

I suppose that there are no answers to such deep and important questions…it is not for us to ponder, it is simply for us to go and retrieve our ‘rollback’ prices.

Blinded By The Awful

 

 

I saw things this past summer.

Horrible, awful, and disgusting things….(insert scary banjo music).

I saw things this past summer that no human being should ever have to endure. Things so vial that by purpose or incident challenged my eyes, brain, logic, and senses. As I have nothing better to do today, I will make you a list of these so-called revulsions and I will distribute them to the masses. (Well, okay, my mom and maybe my brother, whom I pay, to read this blog). The following is a sampling of what I saw…

• I saw a dog vomit at least two gallons of liquid down the kitchen floor vent, only to be thrown outside, come back in and do it again in the exact same spot.
• I saw a four-hundred pound man in a Wal-Mart electric chair take unfair advantage of the buy-one-get-one-free-Cheetoh deal leaving an innocent bystander with only one bag left of the good kind of Cheetohs. (The crunchy ones of course).
• I saw an innocent and good family badminton game turn into an ugly, neo-competitive, bloody extravaganza that sent an innocent seventy-year-old woman to the emergency room.
• I saw a pre-licensed teenager attempt a left-hand turn on a busy two lane highway, while systematically attempting to adjust his sunglasses, change the radio station, and pick his nose all in unison. (Still get chills from this one)
• I saw single co-workers hit on by a strange man named Pablo who had severe family issues and falsely claimed that he knew how to “boogie”.
• I saw politicians who attempted to persuade my vote by trying to convince me that I would actually have social security funds in the bank to be concerned about in 2025.
• I saw a two-liter bottle of root beer explode so thoroughly and so expansively throughout a refrigerator that it took over three hours to wipe clean every surface and jar of relish in the place. (Yes, we have multiple bottles of relish, because every time we have a hot dog my husband buys another jar thinking we may not have one at home and it would basically be the apocalypse to have a hot dog without relish.)
• I saw an estrogen-depleted middle-aged female scream at the top of her lungs and bawl like a baby when confronted with newly discovered knowledge of grey hairs now outnumbering the phony blonde hairs. (Oh yeah, that was me in the mirror).
• I saw that I have absolutely no gifts at all when it comes to the care and cooling of swine (who by the way, do NOT sweat) on a hot summer day. The phrase, ‘sweats like a pig’, is a colossal lie.
• I saw women in public wearing Lycra bathing suits that had no business being in public in Lycra bathing suits. (Oh yeah, that was me too!)

Well, I am sure you are all the better for having read these enlightening tid-bits. I hereby ascertain  (insert sarcasm)that  your life is officially slightly improved.

Let us move into Fall shall we???

Fabulous Fools Of Summer

No, this article is not about our politicians...

School starts next week and summer is over. I have mere hours to accomplish the remaining multitude of vacation undertakings that were elements of a colossal summer extravaganza I had meticulously plotted over the Memorial Day weekend. Based on the opinion of teachers, post-school information retention is very low. Kids need to keep learning fresh in order to prevent dim-witting themselves with too much fun in the sun, too much sleeping in, and eating too much BBQ.  Apparently these evil activities, not kept in check, can turn students into certifiable fools by the summer’s end.

Great ambitions and expectations were birthed in our house when school was dismissed last June. All children in the house would be home- schooled intensively every day and read books so advanced that all three of them would be able to skip a grade upon the arrival of autumn.  In actuality, the only words those kids read all summer were the appetizer selections at multiple restaurant establishments across the Upper Peninsula and Northern Michigan.

 My thirteen year old was able to jump start his Spanish as Friday nights at the Railside Bar and Grill were in fact, ‘Fiesta Fridays’ and there were many cultural offerings such as ‘jalapeño poppers’, ‘chicken burritos’, and ‘mini-tacos’ to read on the menu… I am confident he is dressed to impress his Spanish instructor come the start of that class.

In addition to linguistic triumph, mathematics was to become integrated deep within my young sons’ grey matter. After their intense learning, the boys would become known about town for their ‘Einstein-like’ abilities…whipping off of random algebraic expressions, solving quadratic equations for strangers on the street, and memorizing the first fifty-seven places of pi. Yesterday, the high school kid asked me “what the heck is four times seven?” …mission fail.

Speaking of pi, my youngest and I had planned to prepare gourmet meals every single day with seasonal fare purchased at the local farm market…We made brownies…from the box… just one time. It was not my fault, the farm market scares me.

Our mental growth was to be outshined only by the intensification of our athletic abilities. Being inspired by the Olympics, we were going to run faster, jump higher, and lift weights to become stronger…Well, we ran pretty fast when we thought we heard a bear near the U.P. camp while we were eating butter potatoes. We jumped higher only because we bought a trampoline for the backyard. Jumping, as women my age should never do sober, I severely injured my coccyx (yes, which is a real body part!). And the weights? The only ‘weights’ I have had this summer were for a table at the Railside Bar and Grill. Lifting that fork, up and down, down and up was the extent of our exercise.

Maybe it is not too late, maybe in these waning hours, I can introduce some vital knowledge to ensure that the too-fun summer was not awash in complete ignorance….

Who am I kidding? Currently, one kid is in the kitchen heating up a tray of frozen pizza rolls while another is drooling all over himself while napping on the couch.  The last genius of the family is trying to entice the dog to eat Cheetos out of the kid’s nose.

Me? I am parked here in the squishy chair writing this blog…it is simply too late for us all…

So happy we have great teachers in my town! Good luck with my certifiable kids of summer!

Cougar Snacks

There are cougars in Michigan.

I am not talking about the Botox-injected women my age that are still wearing tube tops and leopard skin high heels. (No judgment there, I keep my tube top for sentimental value, I am just not wearing it to the Wal-mart).

I write of the real life Mountain-lion-like cougar cats. Big, burly, sharp-teeth, swooping tail, not- eating meow mix from the can type of mountain-lion-like cougar cats. They are roaming about the Upper Peninsula using the shores of Lake Superior as a giant litter box. A recent picture from a gentleman hunting near the Keweenaw is the first with a digital camera. That photo is one of dozens caught on trail cameras from Baraga County to Chippewa County. In each of these pictures, they all have one thing in common to me; the cats look hungry.

Now, for those of us that do not live in the western part of the country that deal with the big cats on a day to day basis, this is a huge deal. There are very few creatures that live in Michigan that would like to consume you for an afternoon snack. In fact, I live in Michigan for the sole purpose of existing among creatures that do not wish to have me for dinner. Sure, we have some big ol beautiful black bear, but those guys would rather eat a box of Krispy Kream doughnuts than come after my scraggly butt for sustenance.

Most of time, I would only worry about this when we would visit our camp in the U.P.  According to the Department of Natural Resources (DNR) and my husband, there are no cougars living in the Lower Peninsula. My husband defended this position pretty strongly, reverently denying the possibility of the cats swimming across the straits of Mackinaw, or strolling south over the ice. A position he held, that is, until he came face to face with one on our hunting property smack dab in the middle of the Lower Peninsula.

He says that it may as well been a zebra or a kangaroo that appeared on the path ahead of him two hunting seasons ago. His brain would not even process that the giant cat was laying there, stretching at least five feet across. His first thought was that a severely deformed deer, possibly hit by a car, with a smashed in face like a Schnauzer dog. Then the kitty stood up and took notice of my husband taking notice of the kitty. The swooping tail with a black tip was the first attribute that finally hollered,“Mountain Lion!” in my husband’s brain.  Immediately his woodsman training attempted to scare the cat back into the forest.  He raised his arms into the sky and tried to look “large” as is recommended in such situations to deter a predator. Kitty thought that was fun and not so scary…my husband stated, “It crouched down and locked eyes with me and stared…and that was when I decided to leave…backing away very slowly.”

He climbed into an elevated hunting blind and did what every forty-year-old man scared to death in the woods would do…he called his Daddy to come get him. Personally, you would have found me frozen to the spot, on the ground in the fetal position weeping, thus becoming a cougar snack, or at best, a kitty mouse toy. The trail camera did not capture the image of a cougar that day, but it did take a now-infamous picture of my husband, ultimately walking out of the woods down the same path the “Schnauzer face deer” had just occupied, pistol in one hand, and phone in the other. We never did see that underwear return from camp…no mystery around that.

The DNR still claim that no cougars are present in southern Michigan, they deny because if they admit that knowledge, funding would have to be spent around conservation. I mean really, why inform the public about some nice little kitties strolling about our forests? Let's keep it a surprise!

In our house, we know differently. We think of the woods in another way now, understanding the majestic creatures are sharing our personal space.

A little scary, a lot of cool, I just want them to keep the chipmunks as their cougar snacks.

King Harry and the Naked Olympians

England rocks!!

Well, it has been a glorious two weeks. I am a huge fan of the London Olympics and all that have arrived with them, save the ridiculous commercials of Olympics athletes chugging or consuming foods that we all KNOW they cannot possibly eat and still succeed in sport. I can wage that the gals from the U.S. soccer team do not drink a coke, stop off at McDonalds and then huff a bag of pretzel M&M’s on the way to practice.

Reports on the Olympics state that over six billion dollars will be returned on the initial investment put forth by Great Britain. Also, crime was down in London over five percent since the announcement of the Olympics arriving in the city. Detroit 2020 anyone? Flint 2024? Just a thought.

I had learned much in the first week of the games, but there are endless observations one can gather when the world crams onto one tiny island for the celebration of people doing exhausting physical activities for the pleasure of the folks back home sitting on the couch.

This leads to things I have learned or ponder about the Olympics, Part Two.

·         Legs or no legs, dudes from South Africa are nice-looking young men.

·         Is it too late to start training my kids to be Olympic athletes? Is sitting on your brothers’ head and passing gas an Olympic sport? Can it be? I want those kids on a Wheaties box even though I mostly purchase Cap 'n' Crunch.

·         To become the all-around Gold Medal winner for gymnastics, you must be outlandishly cute. Not cute, no medal.

·         The United States has a gold medal diver that looks like Jim Carey’s little brother.

·         After watching the opening and closing ceremonies, I am convinced the English are all on drugs.

·         Evidence that the English are on drugs is exemplified by the fact that they placed George Michael out there as a national treasure.

·         Monty Python is hard to explain to kids.

·         I miss Monty Python.

·         Based on the diminishing outfits, I predict that we will see naked running, diving, and beach volleyball at the Rio Olympics in 2016.

·         How did Jamaicans become so freakishly fast running in circles on that little island?

·         More evidence that the English are on drugs is supported by the giant octopus lit up during the closing ceremony. I often relate the English with the Octopi…..when??

·         Prince Harry should be King. Just cause. I mean, how cute is he???

·         I really want to go play on the mountain bike course.

·         I would really hurt myself on the mountain bike course.

Well onto Rio in 2016…I am hoping that by then they will add a new summer Olympic sport to the line-up…

 Napping. I could medal in napping.

Mommas Got Her Yooper On!

Sometimes it is hard to think funny thoughts.

The world these past few weeks has been a hard pill to swallow. Sometimes just being me makes it hard to feel funny.

I am from the generation of women that were told you are’ free to be you and me’, but only if you file in behind Gloria Steinem (not wearing the Playboy Bunny outfit thank goodness), march your way into corporate America like Diane Keaton, smash  through the glass ceilings (all the while wearing pre-burnt brassieres), raise children who can read and play Mozart by the time they are two years old, be able to accomplish all this with or without a good man in our life (actually if you like the man you lose two points), and by golly, bring home that bacon, don’t eat it, and head to the gym so that you can look like Christie Brinkley. (For those of you too young for this reference, think Heidi Klum’s mother) Oh and by the way, if you do not volunteer at church or make cool treats that look like eyeballs for the Halloween party; don’t bother to show your face about town.

The pressure can stress a body every once in a while.

So, I did what my 1-800 dial therapy therapists recommended that I do on the verge of a depressed state, and I headed to the back woods of the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. Over the bridge and through the towering pines to a little cabin tucked back in the Hiawatha National Forest. (Hiawatha was actually a spiritual leader that lived in the 16^th century and was from New York…I guess we had to steal a famous Native American from another state because we could not think of one of our own.)

I immediately donned my favorite camouflage shirt with pink buttons. My husband announced to the children “Watch out boys, Momma’s got her redneck on!” I did, redneck relief was on its way.

My first task was to shoot stuff with a .22 caliber Ruger revolver. I tried to pretend I was Olympic gold medalist Kim Rhode. Let’s just say it was a blast shooting cans and skeet with my oldest son, but the only things quivering in my presence were nearby squirrels who took note of my poor aim.

Moving on, I partook in the ancient stress aid known as the Finnish Sauna. (No, that is not how you pronounce it, say S-O-W-N-A-H.) I had a friend in there with me, a little mouse I named Ralph. I was guessing that I spent too much time at an exceedingly high temperature in the hot box when Ralph stood up, threw off his miniature towel, straddled his tiny, red motorcycle and zoomed away. You really are not supposed to drink in those things…just sayin.

The next step in attitude repair required that I consume every type of deep fried food available from Brimley to Rudyard. Onion rings, wing dings, whitefish, and mushrooms were the health food of the week. My favorite snack was the Lumberjack Bleu Balls, on sale, four bucks a basket. (I swear, they were the special that day, you can’t make this stuff up). The inevitable trips to the outhouse were made especially adventurous by the presence of a three hundred pound black bear just outside the neighbors’ back door.  Nothing reduces job stress like replacing it with the stress of an especially expedient dash to the outhouse in a pitch black forest after you have just cooked venison, potatoes and onions in four pounds of butter over the outdoor fire pit. Bears, venison, outhouse, nothing can go wrong there.

My redneck in full force, sadly, it was time to venture home. It is amazing how time with family, nature, and fried food can rekindle a spirit and remind you who you really are deep down inside your heart.  A mom and wife, doing the best I can. Just free to be me.

So stuff it Gloria.

Bikini Bottoms and Shotguns

The Olympics have finally arrived!

What an amazing gathering and display of world human talent and character! The competitive spirit and logistical management of people from over 200 countries is truly the exhibition of homosapiens performing at our best. (Well, save the opening ceremonies… James Bond excluded of course from that comment). This is the complete opposite state of the same group of homosapiens at our worst, or as we like to acquiesce, the reality of what is, the U.N.

Watching the games is always incredibly enriching. After only a few days, I am faster, stronger, higher… well, okay, I am none of those things, but I AM smarter about some aspects of the Olympics.

Let’s play, ‘Things I Knew and Did Not Know About The Olympics’….Part One.

·         I did not know…There is apparently a rule in volleyball, beach or team play, which requires a zealous display of excessive fondness for your teammates after each point scored. This occurs whether or not you succeed or lose the point.  High-fives, hugs, kisses, butt-slaps, it is a sport for lovers!

·         I did not know…If you are of Indian decent, it apparently qualifies you to walk with Team India in the opening ceremonies.

·         I did not know…There is a country named Tonga.

·         I did not know…There is a country named Micronesia (You may not have heard of it, it is quite small). Ha! Sorry, had to do it!

·         I did not know…That the United States has a gold medal winner who looks about my age who can shoot the hell out of little clay Frisbees.

·         I did not know…that I am almost best friends with gymnast Jordyn Wieber. She is the second cousin of my son’s best friends’ father’s cousin.

·         I probably did know…That based on the physique of most of the women I have seen competing thus far,  the ladies do not spend numerous evenings gorging on packages of dual-wrapped Little Debbie Swiss Cake Rolls. (Not that I actually know anyone who does that …)(Insert nervous laugh here).

·         My kids did not know…That water polo is a sport. No high school water polo teams here in Northern Michigan, too dang cold, no outdoor pools. The kids have missed that fact that the idea of the game is to throw the ball into the net and have decided to throw volleyballs at each other’s head while swimming in the lake quite regularly.  Nothing can go wrong there.

·         I do not understand…Why we can send men to the moon, but we are unable to invent a leotard, bathing suit, or beach volleyball panty (g-string really) that does not ride up on the athlete. Thus, the extreme yanking.

·         I do know…When China takes over the world; we are all going to be freakishly good at gymnastics and synchronized diving.

·         I do know…When China takes over the world; we are going to have consistently fantastic opening ceremonies at the Olympics. Not now, just when China takes over the world….although I give Kudos to the Queen on her incredibly awesome sense of humor.

Take Care! Go Red, White, and Blue!!! (For now…)

Scary Christmas In July

They put out the Christmas at the Hobby Lobby last week.  It is July.

The folks that live around the block still sporting their last season icicle lights and the El Rancho strip mall adoring two giant wreaths in their entryway obviously concur that the holiday either never left or has arrived six months early.

Exemplifying my blonde (store bought and proud of it), for a moment I thought perhaps I had missed autumn completely.  Summer has been busy. I was relieved to immediately notice that across the street workers were installing the banner for the Halloween superstore. So basically we have fall and Christmas starting in the second week of the summer. It would have been tragic to miss my favorite scariest holiday, Halloween. (The second scariest holiday, as we all know, is Easter….mostly due to the fact that I still have not located one of the hidden boiled eggs my kids painted back in ’09)

I love Halloween, but scary movies really scare me. (Recall the blonde)

In my youth, yes back in the Byzantine, as my son claims, I tried to be cool with my pals and saw all the classics, like Halloween, Rosemary’s Baby, and Nightmare on Elm Street. The scenes kept me awake many a night fearing a good slashing by crazy dead people. Ironically, what I have discovered as I have aged is that life experienced these last subsequent thirty years, pales in comparison to Jason and his extracurricular activities.  I now have a collection of horror movies of my own. Night of the Living Dead has nothing on my personal anthology.

My scary movies are below…coming to a theatre near you…

Night of the Living Interns ~ One woman experiences the horror of a group of Obstetric Interns learning how to measure pre-birth dilation by crowding into her tiny delivery room….twenty male and female students, one awkwardly positioned mom in the stirrups….pure gruesomeness.

Marie’s Baby’s Diaper ~For the love of Pete! What is that? Do we call the after-hours pediatrician or go to the emergency room stat? It is terror on the changing table.

Nightmare on My Street ~ Junior is in a 3:00 a.m. wake-up pattern….you may never…sleep…again…

Cujo( In The Family)~ You have to babysit the In-laws dog….he has a disorder that causes him to vomit sporadically if he drinks too much water….It is ninety-eight degrees, Cujo is thirsty…

Night of the Living Interns 2 ~ They‘re bahaack! This time to discuss appropriate treatment for post-birth trauma….to awful to go on…you simply must see the movie.(Actually, please don’t , we will have to avoid eye contact in public)

My Poltergeist~ The toilet seat is mysteriously agape; mom falls in and is lost to the other side…

Husband of Frankenstein~ She's not your usual maniacal PMS partner, welcome to menopause! You can run, but the wife will hunt you down…

‘Thanksgiving’ ~No, that’s not Michael Myers’ knife going through you…that is the veggie dip you made with two-day old sour cream. Stay away from the bathroom Nana…

Since its Christmas, you may have some vacation time to hit the theater. Enjoy!

Great Expectations

I have been doing some research.

There have been many psychological studies that state that if we set exceptionally high expectations for ourselves and others, we and those around us will rise to fulfill those expectations (or maybe Oprah just said that).

Many successful and famous people must have set great expectations around their lives to become who they are, for example;

Heidi Klum: “I expect to look ridiculously fantastic, even though I have given birth to three dozen children, in order to make pre-menopausal insecure women feel poorly about themselves.”

Mitt Romney: “I expect to have more money than God and I will bail out the Euro all by myself.”

Darth Vader: “I expect to rule the universe and dominate the dark side.” (Oh sorry, so not Darth Vader, my bad, that was Nancy Pelosi)

Thus, as I am now faced with mid-life and a myriad of unfulfilled low expectations, today I have decided to swap my old set of expectations and formulate some new, higher expectations for myself, my husband, the children, the dog, and some total strangers around me.

For Myself

I now expect my body to decay at a slower rate. I expect to look like Heidi Klum in the morning. (No, not while she was nine months pregnant…well, okay I am good with that either way.)

For My Husband

I expect you to treat our bedroom as the sanctuary that it is and pass gas at least twenty feet from the bed.

For My Children

All three of you are expected to become Valedictorians of your high school. This will be expected for no other purpose than my sheer pleasure on multiple occasions to be able to say, “Yes, all three of my boys were Valedictorians”

I then expect you to stay out of prison as it would be humiliating to have to say, “Yes, all three of my boys were Valedictorians and now two out of three of them are serving five to ten in the Jackson State Penitentiary”

For The Dog

I expect you to stop eating the poop of the roaming forest creatures, and to stop givin’ me the puppy eyes while I am eating my ham sammich.

For Random Strangers

You are expected to remove your offensive rear-window stickers when visiting the child drop-off at the elementary school. It is distressing to explain to a seven year-old that the ‘mini-vans a rockin’ sticker does not have musical connotations. Nor is it pleasurable to explain why Calvin is urinating on a multitude of objects.

There you go; we are now going to rise to these expectations for a well-lived life of happiness, harmony, and bliss.