J-O-B The Search Continues...

After being unemployed for four months, I am discovering that I have become quite an expert in being out of work.

I am really good at it.

My routine is pretty solid now. After seeing the children off to school, I have established a pattern that has evolved over time. I sit down at the computer, visit job boards and proceed to apply for everything from a local pipe fitter to CEO of multiple major corporations. Of course, most of these jobs I am undoubtedly not qualified for, nor ever will be, but desperate times seem to invoke interesting opinions of one’s skill set.

I then proceed to pull a Forrest Gump and sit on a rock outside the house and wait for those kids to get home. As one is leaving for college next year, that may be a time-limited endeavor in itself.

Today, I thought I would do something completely different and compile a listing of jobs that I REALLY would like to have and a list of jobs that I am REALLY happy that I do NOT have to do on a daily basis. I believe this will help me to narrow down the application process and will prolong the rock-sitting time.

Here is the listing of jobs that I would like to have…

Travel Channel Program Host - I want to be the host of a Travel Channel show called ‘Mac and Cheese All Over the World’ where I will basically be paid to tour other countries such as Greece, Spain, Italy, China, Australia, etc…and eat, on camera of course,  local concoctions of  Mac and Cheese. (I do fear the rural-area Chinese version…but it will be worth the risk)

Quality Control Manager - I will be the gateway tester for various products that I love, in no particular order, Cheese Danish, Chocolate Sea Salt Caramels, Red Wine, and Fuzzy Socks

Greeting Card Designer – apparently you can basically pen “open this card and pay up” for the price of a greeting card these days. My card would read, Feeling down today? Well, you could be me, who just paid $5.99 for this stupid card you will throw in the trash in less than 45 minutes

Government Fact Checker….I once had a friend that was paid to check the facts that the fact checker had already checked…I want that gig

Hat Keeper to the British Royal Family – Someone must do this job, and really, I just want to touch ‘em

Ok, here are the jobs that I am REALLY glad that I do NOT have…

Editor, ‘Naked and Afraid’ Survival Show – specifically the dude that has to blank out all the private parts. That is definitely an entry level job that deserves some extra form of compensation. Not for me!

Quality Control Manager – I would NOT want to be the gateway tester for other various products that I do not love, in no particular order, Green Olives, Baby Diapers, Black Licorice and ‘Songs From The ‘80s’ Record Compilations

Government Fact Checker – The first guy in the example above…way too time consuming and you would always have the second fact checker in your business everyday

Corgi Keeper to the British Royal Family – Oh the humiliation that I am certain that job must hold…cleaning up after the royal puppy piddles…don’t want to touch ‘em

I think I will continue on with my current tasks in light of most of these ‘opportunities’.

I have found that rock sitting and dreaming of my next adventures are very time consuming and require all of my energy.

Lost My Funny

I lost my funny.

I am not certain where I lost it, however I suspect that it is along the roadside of highway 127 South toward Lansing between Alma and Shepard, Michigan. I went back to see if I could find it, however I became distracted and wound up way over in Pinconning purchasing a humongous block of smoked cheddar.

Determined to have the funny back in my life I embarked on a journey to find new funny to replace the old funny.

The search began in the most obvious place that I could think of…Walmart, of course. Now we all know that there is all kinds of funny at the Walmart, so I assumed that I would have a cart full of hilarity resulting from my visit. After three hours, the cart brimmed over with plenty of concern, curiosity, wondering, moments of ‘oh my’ and an overwhelming amount of ‘what the heck?’ I also had a bag with frozen chicken nuggets, tube socks and a gas cap. My car does not require a gas cap, however, the rollback price was phenomenal and I had to have it. 

All of those treasures, but no funny.

Tired from the excursion I decided to try the easy route and drove to my doctor’s office to request a prescription for funny. As thrilled as the office staff were to see me without an appointment, I was informed that Dr. Evil Right-On-The-Money had decided to continue her stingy policy of not prescribing non-essential medications for random requests. My second effort to acquire some rose-colored glasses from my optometrist met the same end. I really need to expand my medical team and if my small northern Michigan town only possessed some decent back-alleys, I may have had better luck with this plan.

Returning home, I felt defeated yet still determined to find some funny. Of course I had to hit the Internet. Things that will guarantee a laugh out of me are two things; animals that can talk and babies that do things that babies can’t really do. This disturbs my husband deeply and I know he momentarily reviews his marriage proposal every time he see me crack up at either of these situations, but I was beginning to become desperate. Visiting You Tube I clicked on my old favorites, including this link from the trustworthy BBC talking animals….https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=87fiOXU1Q78

It was simply not working.

Now truly discouraged, I decided to abandon my effort and thought of dealing with a life without the funny and decided to set the table for dinner on the outside patio. While opening the large umbrella that really requires two people, I proceeded to encase myself completely in the umbrella like caterpillar sans the butterfly ending.

I was stuck.

Thoroughly unable to move, my initial fears were that my family would never miss me stuck up in there and it would be days or weeks before my discovery. I then realized the boys would be totally lost without me within hours as no one but me seems to know where I keep the toilet paper as the rolls are never replaced and I receive numerous cell phone calls from young men trapped in the bathroom in need of replacements.

That is when I found it…my funny came over me like a wave as I was trapped in the umbrella thinking about toilet paper. That was all it took, a little bathroom humor and I was back on track. Go figure, I had the funny with me all along.

I learned a good lesson about keeping my funny where I can find it. It was no one’s fault but my own that I lost it in the first place. I will cherish it more now, and keep it close.

At least now I know where to look if I misplace it again… it will be right there in the loo.


Next time: Senior Moments!

My Next Door Nemesis

Recently I have found myself unemployed.

 Hoping that this is a temporary situation, I eagerly wrote down all of the wonderful chores and tasks that are needed to be completed around the house in the short time I am home all day. Some of these projects have been on my mind for years….things such as catching up on all the family photo books, painting my bedroom that is spotted with air soft bullet holes from the last war my sons had in the room, and killing whatever that is growing in the far corner of the basement that I am too scared to attack.

I figured that I would direct all of my attention to these long-neglected duties and be thoroughly fulfilled in the midst of my job hiatus.

Wrong. So very wrong.

What I realized is that I had been lying to myself all of these years. I never really wanted to deal with any of those things. Undertaking those things is really too hard, too overwhelming, or just plain too creepy. Time is not the issue. It is simply all too disgusting or detailed. So I find myself occupied with alternate, very important tasks.

What am I actually doing while looking for a new occupation? Well, I am writing this blog and watching superhero movies with my youngest son. Yes, I am spending way too much time with Spider-man, X-men, Avengers, and (my personal favorite ladies), Thor. Now watching grown men in Spandex saving the world may sound like a waste of time to you, (and some of you are simply jealous), however, my son and I are truly having some bonding moments. Time is spent discussing important questions of the world that arise while engrossed in your day to day, good vs. evil battles.

Today’s question was, ‘Mom, what is a nemesis?’

My answer, “A nemesis is your very favorite worst enemy.”

My son thought for a moment, “Oh like Kristy Elman from my class? Man I love to hate that girl.”

Knowing that Kristy Elman (name changed to protect the not innocent) was the first girl to kick my son in his man-parts, I had to agree with him. 

Then he asked me, “Mom, who is your nemesis?”

I had to think on that one for a while. The truth is that at my age a woman can have many nemesis. So I guess I have to say that I have many nemeni (word made up for my own purposes).

I will present to you my list in order from evil to exceptionally evil.

The first nemesis would have to be my doctor. She insists on standing by the story that the mysterious bulging around my middle and rear end, that spontaneously appeared just after I turned forty, are due to the fact that I refuse to exercise. I, on the other hand, am certain it is some unknown elusive disease that she is refusing to treat, thus she is my first nemesis, and I will call her ‘Doctor Evil Right-On-The-Money!’

My second nemesis is the mammogram technician at the hospital. (Ladies, you know who I am talking about here, a true sadist). She gives that foul knob on the machine one more turn when we all know it is not necessary…although I am certain her work will save my life someday, I will call her ‘The Twister!’

My third nemesis would have to simply be baked goods. No explanation needed here. Just baked goods. I will call this nemesis simply, ‘Cheese Danish.’

My fourth and last nemini is the most evil of them all. She is thoroughly malevolent. She is in my life every day. It is my neighbor, the super model who just happens to run on her exercise routine, (the same routine that I am vetoing) past my house every morning. Her presence evokes a level of guilt that invades my psyche for the remains of the day. She is also, most likely, why my sons and husband decide to take coffee and cereal outside every morning, rain or shine. I would hate her if she weren’t so pretty….I will call her my prime mortal enemy, the worst, most horrid, but love to hate…. ‘The Blonde Bombshell!’

Insert screams of terror.

But not to worry, for I am the good guy and the superhero and will conquer them all….for I am... ‘Mid-Life Mom’

Insert nap.

Wingless Gnats and Summer Camp

My twelve-year old son just returned from summer camp and I am really jealous of his time away.

He went to a camp that had a week-long specialty in paintball. Yes, I said paintball. That cherished American summer feel good sport that gives you bruising welts all over your body and can potentially send you to the infirmary with slight brain damage after any given match. My son headed to the infirmary with a bloody skin tear on his neck, and yes, we received the call from the camp nurse informing us of my son’s injury.  Every parent loves a call from camp. We were told the only sadness from my son was that he missed out on shooting some folks as he was a sniper on a bluff before he was hit by friendly fire. Oh those good ‘ol camp days. Yes, that is the one whose only birthday wish was a brand new machete, preferably one illegal in most countries and could slice the wings off a gnat.  President or prison on that one I always say, he’s the flyer.

These days you can head to almost any type of camp. You can attend for paintball, horsemanship, extreme sports, (oh I can only hope for that one next year, maybe we can receive a call of a broken arm or two), crafts, music, dance, any type of sport, and of course church camp. I love the church camp, and was able to attend one last year.  Being saved by Jesus, followed by an all you can eat walking taco bar and s’mores is the absolute summer ticket, I highly recommend.

I really want to go to camp with simply myself; one designed especially for my own particular place in life. Perhaps it could be a camp for adults experiencing a variety of mid-life crisis. Men aged forty to fifty could check in their medication and head to experience a host of possibilities at their camp. A corvette camp where men with overbearing wives could have a week away to shop for the car they will never be allowed to own. Viagra commercials would not be allowed on the premises. Specialty camps would include, shootin’ stuff, blowin’ up stuff, and my favorite, stuffin’ stuff, a week long taxidermy adventure.  Evening meals could be prostate-health inducing pomegranate shakes and Porterhouse steaks served by twenty-something girls that work part-time at the Hooters.  

Women my age (won’t own the age, but I am in the same range as the men) could spend a week away messing up houses that someone else will clean and learning makeup techniques that wipe away the wrinkles of forty plus years of  long forgotten waistlines  and toilet scrubbing. Specialty camps for women could be, movies that my husband and kids won’t watch, Indy car driving to show off our mad school parking lot skills, and my personal choice, crafting with minor anti-depressants. Our meals would be something that would be easy on the digestive track (got the IBS ya know) and looks pretty, served by pool boys named Pablo. There would be many of them and all would be named Pablo.

Alas, I think I will have to be content with my camp at home this summer. It is fun here, I  still have the toilets and my poor husband does not yet have his sports car, but we will have good times, BBQs and a big backyard sans gnats.

My Doctor Is A Meany

 

I ran into my doctor again this past weekend as I was out and about. 

The truth is I often run into my doctor while I am out and about. Perhaps it may be that she is stalking me. I find it awfully suspicious that I run into her every time I am doing something unhealthy. For example, over the holidays I saw her in the grocery store as I was purchasing items for a small gathering….yes, it may have been a large amount of cocktail mixers in the cart, but it was going to be a large party…at least three or four of us getting together to celebrate some yule tides…whatever those may be.  Then about three weeks ago, right after I was assured that my blood pressure was too high in her office, she suspiciously walked into a local eatery as I was stuffing my face with a double-crust Italian special pizza. Then again, it happened last night. As I was working on releasing my stress (which I may add increases blood pressure) having a healthy wheat beer at the ski hill…who happens to show up? My doctor, that is who shows up, being annoying and partaking the healthy task of actually having skis with her at the ski hill. My skis? They are at home, still in the basement.

Other than the fact that she is stalking me, there is something else particularly annoying about this physician. She is very stingy about mediation delivery. Now, of course, if it is the normal, ethical, medically necessary-type of medication, she is all over that (Boring!) That is not the stash that I am seeking. (And no, it is not the illegal super- Vicodin I am referring to either you sicko-reader)  I am convinced that she has a stash of medicine; pills if you will, that would really enhance my life. I am talking about pills that would solve some serious, real-life concerns that are the heart of all of my issues. (This is, faithful-reader-that-already-knows-this-about-me, a very long listing of issues).

 So I am publicly demanding my pills!  In order to speed along this process, I have made a listing of all of the medication that I would like to pick up at the Walgreens this afternoon:

Fund-a-cide: A pill that would render all those asking me to volunteer for anything capable of seeing what they are really getting. I would take the pill and others would immediately NOT want to ask me to help with any type of concession stand, pizza sale, car wash, or baking event as they would know that I will be late, forget to turn in my money, or will spill coffee on poor folks standing at the concession stand window.

Kid-a-cide: Same pill as above, however formulated for any class trips, youth group events, and large gatherings of children under the age of 18. After the great pool-trauma of ’08, (See blog Field Trip Duty) this is medically necessary and should be covered by insurance.

Pro-work: Really speaks for itself, specifically taken on Monday mornings or Fridays at around 1:15 p.m. equal to twenty or thirty Red Bulls with some positive-attitude coating on it. This mediation may also be handy for lengthy performance reviews.

Tri-boy-moxin: A pill that would render me the cool mom that I truly am, deep down inside, to my three sons. Special side effects of this pill would include the inability to hum along to ‘80s pop tunes written by Boy George, Cyndi Lauper, and Hall&Oats. I would also be physically unable to kiss boys or try to hold their hands in public.

Wella-butt-in: Again speaks for itself, but really eases the gluteus maximus into last year's jeans. Comes in pill and grease form.

Mucus-jazz: This special concoction I can share with the entire family. Anyone who is sick, particularly sporting the stomach flu, will have all body fluids and mucus change color from the lovely browns, greens, and yellows, to soft lavender purple with silver glitter sparkles.  I will save you from further thought or reflection here…

I have other ideas, but I am trying to avoid being greedy, needy, and self-centered. (Although a pill for that as well would be nice!)

I will be showing up at Walgreens, however, I am certain it will be to pick-up my cholesterol medication and not what I really want….my doctor said it may help the heart or something boring like that….she is such a Meany!

Me vs. Stupid Me - An Epic Battle

Why is it when we decide to do something stupid, we say to ourselves, “This is really stupid” and then move forward and do the deed anyway?

 Last week, although I knew it was a really bad idea, in a moment of pure frustration, laziness, and a false sense of invincibility, I decided to cut my own bangs….took the scissors to my face and started chopping away. Convincing myself that at forty-six, I must have some basic skills in this arena and should be able to accomplish the removal of a few hairs dangling annoyingly in my line of vision; the plan sounded full-proof, simply cut and move aside. The second just before I began the chopping, a tiny little voice erupted in my mind; it was ticked and yelled, “What the heck? Are you four? Why are you cutting your own bangs? You know you are going to look like Alfalfa when you are throughwith this! You will be so embarrassed! Stop this madness!!! (Those of you who do not know who Alfalfa is….well, picture of said bangs attached)

Yet, alas, a bigger, meaner voice told the little voice of reason to cram it, and I proceeded to cut my own bangs. I looked like Alfalfa for a week before I could get into my hairdresser, who of course, was cheesed off and told me if I did it again she would come to my home and take away all the sharp objects.

This event led me to ponder about why we do the stupid things we do. Who is that other voice in my head that says, “Sure, I think you should sled down a ski hill on a McDonald’s tray, a fantastic plan! Or, hey, if you take only one diaper to the mall, that baby will not have more than one poopy blow out!” Upon further reflection, it is a voice that I am certain is attempting to kill me, or at best, publicly shame me at every opportunity. She is evil! Yesterday, she convinced me that if I eat twenty-seven of the bite-sized tiny candy bars left over from Halloween, it actually only equals a single, normal-sized candy bar. Why just this morning, the dark lady tried to change my order from a healthy wheat bagel to a giant frosting-covered cinnamon roll. Now that I think about it, the evil voice has been with me, speaking ideas to me, during my entire life.

At six years old, she told me I could turn my bike handle 180 degrees and the rear of the bike would magically flip around. I have a permanent bump on my nose from that exemplary decision.

At ten years old, the voice encouraged me to push Lisa Felmon on the playground, assuring that although she was ten times larger than my scrawny butt, she would not be able to run that fast….not so much.

At fifteen, she told me that just because the boy I liked was dating seven other girls at the same time, he really liked me best. Again, not so much.

At nineteen, she told me moving to California would result in a lucrative career in Ocean Exploration. Well, I am NOT writing this story about my newest discovery of a deep-sea organism that I am naming after myself, so there you go.

At twenty-five, she tried to get me to schedule my wedding during hunting season. (This voice still tries to schedule various family functions during October and November, it will not relent!)

At thirty, a perm would make my thin, fine, hair explode into such wonder I would look just like Madonna. I have never, nor shall ever, resemble Madonna.

Sadly, this voice has not given up, although I am older. It seems to be that the life-long, epic battle of me vs. stupid me, shall continue on….who will subsist? I am not willing to place big money on me at this time. I just went back to munching on my teeny, tiny M&M’s…..Did you know that if you eat 375 tiny M&M’s, they equal only one normal-sized bag of M&M’s?

               

Showering with Greg and Jerry

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Road Flares, Pajamas, and Palm Trees….Camping in Northern Michigan

A couple of months ago, my husband announced that he was finished with family vacations in hotels and that from now on, we are going to be a camping family.

 

Here! Here! I agreed.

 

Enough of those vacations where kind strangers appear in order to clean your room, cook your food and bring it to you, wash your dishes, and even scour the dirty laundry if you leave it outside the hotel door in that little white bag that hangs in the closet….why would anyone want a vacation like that? Yucky. Blech...(insert awkward pause). So we purchased a brand new used travel trailer and hit the road for the first time this summer last weekend. What a glorious idea. The Great Lakes of Michigan are a true blessing for all those who have the opportunity to experience them for any amount of time. The wildflowers were brilliant and the crashing waves of Lake Huron were melodic and therapeutic, I arrived home refreshed and rejuvenated by its waters.

 

However, I did observe that campgrounds are a place of true wonderment. Hundreds of people gathering from afar, squeezing onto stamp-sized pieces of ground, to spend hours inflating, leveling, assembling, unpacking, and setting up tiny houses and campsites, only to deflate, unlevel, disassemble, pack and put away the entire package two days later in order to return home where you go through the entire process again in order to clean everything. Some would say an exercise in insanity, I say, last weekend’s good times!

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                        

The P.H. Hoeft State Park Campground close to Rogers City, MI, is located in a pristine pine forest, beautiful and shady. The first thing I wondered was from which planet the enormous mosquitoes that infested our five by six foot camping acreage had arrived. Those babies were full-size and abundant, capable of supplying the blood bank at the university hospital for a month. The official tally was approximately 13,000 blood suckers per cubic foot. I was smacking them so often, people walking past our campsite thought I was applauding them….some folks smiled and bowed, uncertain of what warranted my ovation. The black flies were so tough, they were smoking ‘roll your owns’ and had tiny tattoos on each little leg that read “BITE YOU!”  I basically dipped the kids in a pool of DEET and sent them on their merry way, fully accepting that my grandkids may have atomic super powers or psychic anomalies due to toxic chemical poisoning. At one point my son complained that he had lost all feeling in his lips from sticking DEET soaked fingers too close to his face…”no worries Stef”, I stated, “taste is highly overrated… you may just start liking that tuna dish your Grandma Nada makes at Christmastime and that will get you some holiday gift bonus points.” Problem solved.

 

The second thing I wondered during our camping extravaganza was where else in the world can you go to vacation and hang out with a couple hundred people that are all okay with each other walking around in their pajamas?  I mean, other than downtown Pittsburgh or drop off and pick up at my son’s elementary school? Apparently, if you are on your way to the rest room at any hour, proper attire is not expected. Flip flops, men’s boxers and a tube top where all the rage among the ladies…the men? Let’s just say I hope there was something other than God’s gifts under those giant t-shirts.

 

My husband had some wonderings of his own. He wondered how he could have been the only person to actually read the forty or so signs that stated, “All dogs must remain on leash”. I observed a moment outside the camper truly indistinguishable from the Bumpus’ dog scene from the movie ‘A Christmas Story’. The neighbor’s three burly dogs came over for a mass visit in order to relieve themselves on all of the trees and leafy areas around the camper, smell our dog, and help themselves to the breakfast my husband was preparing on the camp stove. I wondered how my spouse was able to refrain from the famous explicatives as he directed the brood back to their owner, only to find the gentleman, Rambo-style knife strapped to his ample thigh, attempting to ignite his camp fire with street flare and intending to burn a twenty-foot pine log across the fire pit …nothing can go wrong there, situation explained.  

 

I lastly wondered how I did not know to ‘forget’ my broom at home. I now have Schwarzenegger arms from all of the clearing of dirt from inside the camper to the outside rug, from the sweeping of the dirt from the outside rug to the mat just outside of the outside rug designed to keep all of the dirt off of the rug and the inside of the camper. Jeesh!  The clean would last about ten minutes and the dog, kids and husband would bring in the mess of pine needles and my spouse would utter, “Wow, lots of dirt in here! Honey, you probably need to sweep in here again” …I can now return to my career in arm wrestling during half-time at the roller derby in Kalkaska.  

 

The camping nights would end peacefully with red wine served in plastic cups consumed in the serene glow of plastic palm trees and pink flamingo lights dangling from the campers’ awnings, (I will own some of my very own, very soon!).  I look forward to our next camping adventure in the U.P. coming soon…I am sure there will be all kinds of normal up there….

 

Well, not  too much as my family will be there!

Happy Summer Camping!!

Scandals and Sandals

Recently Washington has been riddled with scandals (recently being a relative term that is defined by the phrase "this week and has actually been going on for over the last two hundred years")

The only thing that would put the current administration in more hot water would be the San Francisco vegan-crowd finding out that Nancy Pelosi has a hidden closet of baby seal slingbacks adjacent to her bedroom.

So in the spirit of full disclosure and accountability I have decided to set an example for the Washington horde and confess to various scandals and scandalous activities of my own…of course to expect the politicians to follow suit would be like placing hope in the electoral college system. (Insert hysterical laughter) Here is my list, I am coming clean:

I have purposely purchased loud electronic gifts for nieces and nephews (i.e...Race car with obnoxious revving sounds and sirens) as paybacks to my brother and sister for atrocities committed against me during our formative years.

I kept the five dollar bill my son left in his pocket and was discovered in the dryer lint trap.

Any chocolate that does not fit into the Christmas stocking goes to a secret stash in the freezer that is pilfered for my personal enjoyment for the remainder of the year.

Once, I washed the same load of clothes three times because I kept forgetting to take it out and place it into the dryer. Okay, the true scandal is that this has happened more than one time, possibly twenty-seven times.

When I am feeling particularly adventurous, I watch Rachel Maddow to see if I will spontaneously combust.

I have purchased baked goods and placed them onto plates from my kitchen to insinuate that the cookie-bars, cinnamon rolls, or what-not are ‘homemade’.

I have lied about my intent to go bungee-jumping when I know darn well that will NEVER happen.

I pretend that I am not ‘pee your pants’ afraid of the bears and cougars that live around our cabin in the U.P.

On occasion, I have considered consuming the pet rabbit with a side of béarnaise….on many occasions, okay, last night.

It has been rumored, and may be possible that the hamster that was “sleeping” when the kids went to school and grew ten times larger and morphed colors while they were away may not have actually been the same hamster.

I once told my Sunday school preschoolers that I was a former super model that decided to quit and stay home to raise her kids…Yes, I lied to children, as they were the only ones who would believe me.

The bleu cheese dressing is so good at The Lake Superior Brewing Company Restaurant in Grand Marais, that I once had it for dinner…nothing else, just beer and dressing.

Now, I will take the heat of these tawdry activities and suffer the consequences. Friends in Washington, it is not so tough, try it sometime!

Snowboots and Swimsuits or...A Michigan Springtime!

It is supposed to be springtime here in Northern Michigan……but it ain’t.

It is April 8^th or so and it is basically a blizzard outside my window. Michiganders historically complain about the weather, and have full rights to do so on any given day outside of July 27^th.  That day, July 27^th, tends to be the only day in the entire year that Michiganders universally mutter to themselves…eh, it’s alright out there today, I shall go for a walk.” That is thee one and only day. Otherwise the never-happy inhabitants post about the weather, mutter explicatives regarding the corruption of picnic planning, and corporately complain like a humongous group of demented lemmings.

Not only is it a cultural issue in our great state, It is our right and our heritage. Two-hundred and fifty years ago or so, when the first travelers arrived in Michigan and met with the native Michiganders, I am sure the conversation went something like this:

“Bonjour! (Most likely some French dudes were first arrivals) I am Jean Claude Detroit, I am here to settle this land (in French that means, take it without permission) and send you to a casino somewhere around Mt. Pleasant…. and hey, what the heck?  It is freezing right now, but this morning I was roasting to death in my raccoon cap.”

“I am Chief Ojibwa….I am really not fond of your settlement plan but your reflection on the weather is most astute. We have been dancing for rain for three weeks and sure enough, it snowed on the last day! And yesterday, the humidity in the wigwam was wretched and now I am wrapped head to toe in deer hides. Go figure!”

Henceforth, the weather bond between all people Michigan has prevailed.

Although old man winter will not liberate us from his icy grip, no one has seemed to relay that message to the poor birds arriving from Florida or the local children at the middle school. The geese, robins, and cranes that have settled in during the last week have a bleak look of astonishment on their little bird faces. The children, in some unified, facebook- initiated protest, are wearing shorts and t-shirts into the school despite three feet of snow still remaining on the ground.

The expression of our feathered-friends matches the other snow birds that arrived home this week, my in-laws. Once out of the car here in Northern Michigan I am certain they contemplated getting right back in, turning around and heading back to Fort Meyers. To be honest, at this point in April, I would ride strapped to the roof to join them.

Feeling rebellious, and despite the call of the local ski resorts to spend yet one more dollar on another deep-fried Twinkie at the hillside restaurant, we put away all of the skis, boots, snow pants, shovels, snowball makers, helmets, goggles, and sleds. That task completed and liberating, I will now plan on joining the middle-school protest and will begin wearing my flip-flops and bathing suit to Meijer, all the while wading through the slush and ice…(just kidding, that bathing suit is not emerging until July 27th, you have been subsequently warned.)

And I am going….

As soon as it stops raining outside…

Ah, Michigan!

Prison, Pregnancy, and Prozac

 

I have three boys. My husband and I are trying to raise the children with the ultimate goals of completion of college and the successful avoidance of all of the three P’s, the three P’s being, Prison, Pregnancy, and Prozac. While total success is the expectation, we acknowledge that the least likely to be achieved will be the parental dipping into the Prozac…..do not judge me. Sometimes those boys can say or do things that simply leave a parent speechless. Those that know me would comment that rendering me speechless is quite the accomplishment.

In the spirit of encouragement for other parents of young men, or possibly future testimony, I thought I would share a few of those moments that have truly caught me off guard as a mother. I had no initial response to the following statements or questions, but rest assured, an appropriate, “oh hell no!” did eventually make its way to the surface if required.

In no particular order…..

“Mom, I need a dead squirrel for school by tomorrow morning”

“Mom, I need a machete for my leprechaun trap.”

“Mom, were you hot when you were young, like, back when your skin was smooth?”

“Mom, can I get a machete for my birthday?”

“Mom, would you be upset if Dad just let me walk around up on the roof of the house?”

“Mom, would you be upset if Dad just let me walk around up on the roof of the barn?”

“Mom, can I take my machete over to Cameron’s house?”

“Mom, that itch on your elbow is probably a case of ‘old lady rash’”

“Mom, do we have any more lighter fluid, or hey, gasoline would work too right?”

“Mom, would you say that fire is too close to the barn?”

“Mom, I am thinking of Motocross as a career.”

“Mom, when I grow up, I used to want to be a veterinarian, but now, I hope I can be a waiter.”

“Mom, I am making six dollars an hour, for sixteen hours per week, I’d say it’s time I make my own way in the world.”  (This was followed by……Mom, can I have a ride to the movies, and some money for popcorn?”)

“Mom, have you seen my machete, I think I may have left it somewhere?”

 

So when you see me at the Walgreens, picking up that prescription every other Wednesday around three, remember what you have read here. I am not too proud for your pity.

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!!