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!