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.