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.