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.