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.

I Survived The Fourth of July

If there are lakes, they will come.

During the first week of July, one-third of the entire population of Michigan shifts approximately one hundred and eighty miles north. Without concern for public safety, speed limits, or personal space, vehicles from Ann Arbor, Detroit, and Grand Rapids come for the holiday.  One by one, travelers settle in Gaylord, Cheboygan and Harbor Springs. People who live in Gaylord, Cheboygan and Harbor Springs move north over the bridge into the Upper Peninsula.

Now this a truth for all in the state save the actual Yoopers, as they already live in heaven, and folks from Traverse City, as they are required to get permission from Michael Moore if they are to travel outside city limits and the paperwork gets backed up. (Ha! Oh settle down Traverse City, I’m just messing with you, don’t be so sensitive!)

I love this holiday, great purpose, great family time, and most of all I love a good parade.

This year it was extra hot, and the 4^th of July assemblage in Boyne City, MI paraded for an admirable extended amount of time in over ninety degree temps.

Four indications that your 4^th of July parade may be a tad too long:

1. Children are not crying with shouts of joy and wonder, they are simply crying.

2. The heat index on the spandex-encased woman on the curb across the street reads “T-M-I”.

3. The Veterans are taking a nap; their firearms precariously balanced just enough to make you nervous as they pass by.

4. The Shriners in their Fez hats are egging-on a fist fight between the Democrat and Republican running for county prosecutor.

Surviving the parade with a minor case of heat exhaustion, you move onto the local food fair. Nothing says happy birthday to our great nation more intimately and deeply than food on a stick. Everything simply tastes better skewered and carried around town. My personal favorite is a stick of butter dipped in sweet batter, deep fried, and then covered in powdered sugar and raspberry drizzle.   Of course, in order to purchase one, you must sign a waiver saying that you are okay with forfeiting three years of your life by clogging your carotid arteries. I signed. It was worth it.

The scorching sun compelled us to move toward the art fair and the covered tent store fronts. One particular booth that caught my attention donned a huge banner sporting giant letters that read ‘STONED’.  Interestingly enough numerous people (many of them wearing tie-dye shirts and Rastafarian hats) were clamoring to get into the enclosure. To the dismay of the Rastafarians, it was not a traveling medical marijuana salesman, it was an artisan who was selling multiple items covered in river rocks….lamps, bowls, tables, curtains, just about anything, yep, all covered in stones. The depressed left to find some munchies.

They had a great T-shirt I was tempted to purchase that simply had their logo printed across the front, but it would probably not go over well at the church picnic. I better stick with one that simply reads,

‘I survived the 4^th of July, 2012’.

This Is Your Brain On Boats

My brain has a mind of its own.

I tell it every day to run the body at least two miles, write a novel, eat fruits and vegetables of multiple colors, call my mother, clean out the trash cans, and learn Tae Kwon Do. It rarely cooperates; it has not obliged with the Tae Kwon Do command since September 8^th of 1989. (I took a lesson from two Keweenaw Peninsula Byzantine Catholic monks that teach Tae Kwon Do and make killer thimbleberry jam. If you think I am lying… http://www.societystjohn.com/store/ )

Instead, what usually happens is that I walk to the end of the driveway , write this blog, eat a bowl of Capn’ Crunch, call my train wreck of a cousin, (see blog ‘Plumbers Night at the Races’) clean nothing, and we already know what happened to the Tae Kwon Do.

Cognitive Science states that if we deliberately set intent before we participate in any activity, then our brain looks for opportunities to live up to the intent. My brain must be the ultimate rebel. It is its own personal Marlon Brando… (For those of you too young for this reference, too bad, stop making me feel old).

For example, even if I intend to exercise and I see Richard Simmons sweatin to the oldies or that body-Nazi Jillian, my brain does not get up and groove, it rebels and hollers, “Stuff it Richard! Your hair is unnaturally fuzzy!” or  “I hate you Jillian, no YOU are the biggest loser!” and I get in the car, head to the 7-Eleven for a bag of Cheetos and a Coke slushy.

Many of us struggle in this manner. Consider the complexity of the battles that rage in that treasure trough of Lindsey Lohan’s mind:

Lindsey: “I really should not drink that bottle of Grey Goose before heading out on my ocean view drive.”

Lindsey’s brain: “Oh peeshaw! That is a great idea! Get the keys to the Mercedes!”

Lindsey: “I really should pay for this necklace I slipped on in the store”

Lindsay’s brain: “Bad suggestion...shiny object ….let’s rock and roll outta here!”

Yesterday, my brain took our eighteen-foot Boston Whaler boat out for a joy ride. I had driven four miles, made three left-hand turns, and passed numerous Gaylord citizens (yes, maybe even you) before realizing the boat was attached to the SUV. Thinking the car sluggish, I glanced into the rear-view mirror and there it was…..what a shocker!  I yelled, "Holy (Insert your favorite expletive)!" and proceeded to freak out. My brain does not even care for my wellbeing!  Safely home, my incredibly  patient husband tried to calm me by saying that this happens to people all time, random hauling of boats without driver knowledge. I am trying to believe him.

So if a short, blonde lady in the car next to you, waves you down while you’re driving with your boat in Northern Michigan and mouths the words, “You-have-a-boat-behind-you” as a public service;

She is not a lunatic, it’s just her brain!

Beware: Job Hunting Causes Dementia

I am finding myself facing the possibility of becoming unemployed.

The Michigan State Legislature has squeezed the blemish of bureaucracy and out I have popped with countless other Americans and about 30% of Greek citizens into the job market.

My first thought was to consider joining the dozen people of the ‘Gaylord 99%’ on the lawn of the city building.  Sadly, I do not draw bubble letters very well and my sign would read:

’I really shouldn’t be here, these are not my politics.’

But the idea of hanging/protesting on the lawn all day during the beautiful northern Michigan summer with some probably very nice people sounds inviting. As I am certain they would not like my sign, and that I could face an angry mob, (okay, maybe not a mob, but perhaps a disgruntled cluster), I decided to go the traditional route and hit the classifieds for new prospects.

What a wonderful plethora of opportunity! (Insert sarcasm) I was truly surprised at how many positions met my skill set.  (Insert hysterical laughter) As I read from ad to ad I found that I was qualified for almost every job! From advertising to welding, I decided I could do just about anything to keep the dollars flowing. This is a result of either high self esteem and efficacy, or clinical dementia.

Logically I understand that a high tolerance for bad coffee and the desire to acquire a commemorative sterling silver spoon from each of the lower 48 states, does not automatically meet the criteria of a tanker truck driver. But yet, somehow, I can envision myself riding high above the Prii (Pronounced ‘Pri-eye’, is plural for multiple Prius) perched upon a bouncy hydraulic seat, smoking (I do not smoke, but would be willing to try for the right position), chewing on a toothpick, (yes both at the same time) and wearing a cut-off sleeveless t-shirt. Truck drivers are tough. The job would require a tiny bit of preparation, truck driving school, licensing, insane people that would want to put a small, pre-menopausal, bi-focal wearing, soccer mom behind the wheel of a tanker truck, but hey, it is all in the attitude right?

If that does not work out, there may be other options such as a Sous Chef. Whatever sous are, I bet I can whip up a tasty batch. Or, there seem to be many positions open in the mental health field.  Amid the hoard of my personal issues, combined with children and a large extended family, I would think starting next week would be suitable.

Yesterday, I visited with an old friend and former supervisor (yes, shamelessly digging for a reference).  In relation to my fears regarding my qualifications she stated, “Oh I wouldn’t worry about that dear, we thought you were highly under-qualified when we hired you, and look, you didn’t screw that job up too bad.”

Wow, with that confidence booster you all better take heed and make good with your maker, fate may place me in your neighborhood hauling toxic waste in my new tanker truck.

Plumbers Night At The Races

It was topless night at the Merritt Speedway dirt track in Lake County.

 My family was in attendance to view the Wood Tick 100 race night. Not understanding what “topless night” meant, and always priding myself on being a team player, I made certain I had on clean underwear.

The night was off to a rough start as we discovered upon arrival that had we worn all of our Budweiser apparel; we would have received two dollars off the admission price. A sign of the current economy was apparent as the two year old gaining entrance directly  in front of us was wearing a “This Bud’s for You” oversized onesie. I was looking for a Bud Light hat to grab off of someone’s head to thrust onto my nine year old, but none were in reach. Full admission was paid. A sign of rain loomed in the clouds overhead, but a nearby sign promised rain rebates up to six races, so my husband’s wallet was put to ease.

We entered and found a precarious seating arrangement on some bleachers that made me envision numerous possibilities of collapse. The headline crossed the ticker of my mind as we sat on the old wooden planks, “Mother of Three Perishes in the Cheap Seats, saves family by cushioning their fall, thank goodness she had eaten all of those chili cheese fries….”

We quickly learned, to my relief and my husband’s dismay that “topless night” referred to the type of roof on the race cars that were competing.  Roll cages covered the racer’s heads rather than a traditional metal roof. No group nudity would be called for on this summer’s eve.

The energy at the track was high, the cars were awesome, and the people friendly. We were all having a great time. Until, that is, the happening happened.  My husband ‘happened’ to direct my glance to a portly gentleman about two rows below us who was sporting a most obvious and colossal plumber’s crack for the whole world to view.

It is like a train wreck; you simply cannot look away. (Why do we always say ‘train wreck’? Now, I have never actually witnessed an incident involving locomotives, but, I do have a second cousin with horrible taste in men. Every time I talk to her, I cannot help but ask, “Hey Karen how is Lance? Is he still in-between modeling jobs? Has that other guy ever paid you back the money you lent him to start his Karaoke business?” Now that is a train wreck!)

I digress. For the entire evening, until the first rain drop fell, I had a viewing process in place….cheese fry, race, crack, cheese fry, race, crack...after an hour and a half, the pouring rain, like the cleansing agent it is, saved me from myself. As the drenching ensued it was time to finally look away and race for our car. Of course we had just viewed race seven for the evening and would not qualify for the rain rebate.

As I rose from the bleacher, I heard my son groan. “Jeesh mom, nice plumber there! You shouldn’t wear those jeans when you sit on the bleachers anymore that is just nasty.” I reached behind me to verify my son's assessment, and sure enough, my T-shirt was a bit too high for the jeans I was wearing.  Those poor people behind me, they just wanted a nice night at the races. The horror.

 I can only hope that they are not writing about me today.