That's Doctor Redneck to You!

Oh honey. The South is alive and well. It’s living in a bar off M-72! Turns out there are Rednecks on this side of the Mason-Dixon, too! Their boots aren’t as pointy but their trucks are just as tall!

When I asked what beer was on draft, my choices were Bud, Bud Lite, Blatz and PBR.  I went with the house Merlot. The waitress laughed in my face but returned with a stem filled to the brim with wine.  A clue, perhaps…

I clunked crystal with my pals, Sharon Chardonnay and Ivana Shiraz. All I can say is there is a shriveled bag inside a box somewhere under that bar. Lesson learned. We switched to Blatz – which was much smoother. Ouch.

Still, cerebral lubrication was required. So, down the hatch!

Open Mic Nights are always a delicate balance of talent, charisma and balls. I’ve found you get more bang for your Bud Lite from the balls and charisma. Betting on the talent is pretty darn tricky.

I usually put my money on the guy with the longest ponytail, nursing the cheapest beer with the most boogered up instrument. On this particular Thursday, I had several choices in that category. It was clear I was going to have to add a few more parameters.

The thing about Rednecks – be they sunburned in the South or snow-blasted Up North – is that you never know if the ZZ Top lookin’ dude with the mandolin just crawled out of his cave in the mountain side or is a brain surgeon.

I was leaning toward brain surgeon because the MC introduced every picker as “Doctor SoandSo”.  A closer look at the Fingernail Situation told me none of these guys was gonna doctor any part of my SoandSo. Again with the “Ouch”.

So I started judging by their Get Ups. Their costumes. Stage Attire. I mean, you know you’re getting up in front of a bunch of people who will be focused solely on you, right? Mmmmmm…not so much. They were all very authentic. Focused on their craft. We’ll leave it at that.

Country boys, in general, love ‘em some plaid. I’ve seen some dern dang hot little cowboys with thermal undershirts under their plaid flannel, tight Wranglers with symbolically big belt buckles and buttery leather boots.

I did not see that guy last Thursday. I didn’t even see that guy’s second cousin.

Here’s what I did see. A five-piece combo of dads and granddads pickin’ and grinnin’ fit to kill. An angel faced bass player a full twelve inches shorter than his instrument. A full-gray longhaired, longer bearded dude with a hot pink guitar who had me jumping up to hug his neck. Three very classy women gingerly sipping wine. (oh wait, that was us) and one full-on Glee Wanna Be in a sailor shirt.

This bar could be in Wapanucka, Oklahoma, Kalamazoo, Michigan or Podunk, New York. All comers’ welcome! It’s a refreshing slice of Americana that makes us all feel just a little bit more normal. Need that – love that!

Can I hear a "Hell Yeah!"??

Morons, Idiots & My Back Side

“People who drive slower than me are morons and people who drive faster than me are idiots.”


Never is that more true than when you’re driving in crappy weather. Snow covered streets, torrential downpours, when you’re late for soccer practice – stuff like that.

A lot of Southern drivers learned a thing or two this past season, I’ll betcha. For the most part, though, Joe Bob doesn’t get much icy road time. They pretty much shut down the town if it comes a Toad Strangler. When the snake bellies freeze to the ground – it’s over and done, Sally Mae.

Ok – that’s too colloquial, even for me.

I fully expected to be the hands-down worst winter driver in the Pinky. I was ready for the catcalls, the snarls, the glares and the occasional farm-callused middle finger shooting up from behind the wheel of a Dodge truck. Uh…. not so much. Y’all kinda stink at it, too.

The guy in front of me is driving a Subaru or a Saturn or somesuch thing. He’s going 32mph – 20 around the corners. I’m standing on my brakes to keep from ramming this moron. I’m also sitting on my hands and biting on my tongue. I’d pop my finger at him but my manicure is chipped.

I finally come to a passing lane and roar past him. This, of course, puts me on the lesser-traveled part of the road and a teensy little fish tail jeopardizes my indignant fly-by. Flair. I’m just going to call that “Flair”.

Well, as much flair as one can muster in a Buick.

Settling in at a moderate 55mpg, I feel comfortable enough to toggle between all two radio channels available to me.

Whoosh! What the…..?? Some idiot  just passed me! I’m driving 55 miles an hour, for crying out loud! He must be crazy! I get caught up in his jet stream and almost go in the ditch.

Then I’m forced to speed up because even girls don’t like getting passed. I mean, I’m not the Maw Maw here, pal. I’m Anita Freakin’ Merl…… yikes! Loss of Goodyear Gription!

55 seems fair. Jimmy Carter thought so.

So far, I have avoided bashing anyone, getting stuck or even giving anyone the Bird. I stick to “moron” or “idiot” because I usually have teenagers in the car and I’m trying to worm in a Teachable Moment whenever possible.

I’ve even found a way to get a little exercise! Driving in the winter Up North has done wonders for my glutes! Trying to drive between the morons and the idiots, they are getting quite a workout pinching the car seat in Dixie-style fear!

Go Fest, Young Man!

In the summer, when all the Fudgies are in town, Michiganders have lots of reasons to laugh. Mostly at the Fudgies. I know this because I’ve seen them point and laugh at me. Just yesterday, in fact.

In the winter, they (we) have to make our own fun. WinterFest, IceFest, WineFest, BeerFest, I’m-So-Bored-I’m-Gonna-Jump-Naked-In-The-Lake Fest. Name it – it’s Fested.

Last weekend I went to the MicroBrew/MusicFest.  I spent a lot of time people watching as I was, personally, having a PortaPottyFest.

Oh, the ladies bemoaned the sad reality of sitting down. We strategized about the best way to peel off layers without dragging our hems. The men gloated about not having to worry about all that. We all laughed about “breaking the seal”. Hahahaha! That was the first time I was in line. By the third time, I was a little bored with conversations about what goes on between your knees and nipples.

So, instead of staring at latch on the blue plastic door, I had a little look around.

Because it’s somewhere between 25 and minus 76 degrees up here, fashion is limited to your coat, your boots and what you have on your head. The coats were predominately puffy and the boots were predictably flat. Dullsville. It really boils down to what you wear on your nogg. That’s where the fun starts!

The basic stocking cap was represented in all colors and patterns. Unfortunately they all end up creeping up on heads until they form a little point on top. Colorful Coneheads. Overall, not a good look except for that one guy who you just know is hiding something far worse under there.

My personal fave is the hat with the earflap thing going on. Do they have a name? I don’t know it. But it cracks me up. It’s like the Basset Hound equivalent of a summer baseball hat. Lots of colleges were represented as well as the fake fur of several animals. The earflaps were left dangling or
pinned up depending on the age of the wearer. Either way, these hats are a solid choice if the message you are trying to send says, “I am so cool, I can make this dorky hat look good.” Limited success with that, but they all get an A for effort. Even the ones who were actually too dorky to realize the irony.

After my third microbrew and on my fourth potty stop, I started hallucinating. I know this sounds crazy but I could swear people were wearing road kill on their heads. I saw foxes and raccoons. I quit drinking before I saw actual pink elephants. (that’s not entirely true….)

Fump Fump

“Jeez o’Pete, Dave! What the heck was that?”

“Gosh, Dan. I think it was a little woodland creature!”  

“Ya know… I really hate this pinhead hat the Mrs. bought at Meijer….”

This weekend my Fest of Choice is the WinterFest in Glen Arbor. Even as I type, I’m simmering nine gallons of “Non Traditional Chili” for the Cook-Off. Nine gallons is a lot. There will be more people on the deck at Boonedocks than actually live in Glen Arbor.  So, like, 700.

I’m feeling pretty confident. It’s a darn fine chili. Not my first rodeo, y’all. I’m from Texas. I’m also partnering up with a local celebrity, Sas Quatch. Hopelessly chauvinistic, Sas will be the first to tell you he wields a mighty fine ladle. It takes a very long ladle to get down to the good stuff in those big pots. He thinks he deserves an award for this. Don’t they all…

Sas will be rockin’ a cowboy hat for this particular Fest. I’m not sure about me. I don’t want to dangle my ear flap tassels in the chili, though, so that one is definitely out.


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Dutch Treat

My friend, Barb, was leaning dangerously close to a small pile of olives I’d picked off my salad. I cocked an eyebrow across the table at her son who shook his head sadly.
         “One time she asked for a doggie bag for the onions I didn’t put on my hamburger. It’s a Dutch thing.”

A Dutch Thing?   I don’t get it.

First, I had to ask someone where Dutch people come from. Deutschland comes to mind, but that’s actually German for Germany. It’s the Netherlands. I guess they didn’t want to be called Nethers because that means “lowest”. My grandmother always called her potty-parts, her “nether regions”. Nanny was a little off – or maybe she had a bad experience with a date who made her pay half and she’s been politely calling him an ass ever since.

So Dutch people are FROM the Nether…um…Lands and, for some reason I can’t seem to get a straight answer on, CAME to Michigan. They must have had some stroke with Immigration because they all seemed to have skipped the Renaming Line at Ellis Island. Those crafty Calvinists made it through with all the Van’s and Der’s and Sma’s intact. And way more than their fare share of unnecessary vowels and extraneous consonants. They’re kinda showing off, I think. Vandersmithsma? Oeltjenbruns?

Actually this abundance of alphabet is incongruously extravagant for Dutch people. (not unlike that sentence…) If I may generalize, and I love to, Dutch people are notoriously frugal. Like, really-really.

My husband wore Wonder Bread bags on his feet to keep them dry in his boots. I almost didn’t believe that because I know his mother would never buy Wonder bread when the store brand was cheaper.

I once caught her sifting through the trash for the Ziploc bags I had tossed. I saw them later propped open and upside down in the dish drain.

In the summer, we conspire to get her out of the cottage so we can purge the fridge of tiny half servings of week-old zucchini.

These are pretty small examples. I hope y’all will blow up the comment section with your own family’s legacy of frugality.

I have to tell ya, that isn’t how we do things down South. The only thing passed down is the silver baby rattle and a nice mink mouton. If you got it, you flaunt it. If you don’t, you better, by god, fake it. “Fake it ‘til you make it” This means big cars, big houses, big diamonds. You gotta keep your hair, heels and hooters nice and high. And all that doesn’t come cheap.

We do so love the excess. Obviously, ole Anita has had to tone it down a smidge. Nosebleed heels are gathering dust.  Big, fat gaudy rings don’t fit under my gloves. Sad, really. I did get some fake leopard leg warmers off eBay the other day. That should cause a stir.

In the meantime, I need to get ready for dinner. (i.e. put on my Dressy Birkenstocks) We’re going with some friends we met up here. They said they want to go Dutch. In Dallas, that means we would split the check. Turns out, here, it means it’s our treat.

Anita Dawgeebagg

(Not So) Simply Anita

Everyone needs something.
Anita Merlot.
When it’s really crazy? Anita Preauxzach.
When it’s -9 degrees?  Anita Vaekay.
God knows, Anita Schpanken.
And a damn Merlot. Helllooo?!?

As a cultured woman of the South, I was taught to simply hold my empty stem up with a helpless, limp hand and it would automatically be swept away and refilled accordingly. Preferably by my significant other, but if he’s too slow (or perhaps distracted by some blond bimbo’s stem), there was always a chivalrous gentleman ready to accommodate my needs. Wine-wise, I mean.

My first clue was when I tried that move with my future husband. No go. I waggled the glass in the air. I even tossed in a perky little pout. Nothing. Really? Anita Rhett….

His business partner, a beautiful silver-haired Southern Man, who was on his fourth or fifth wife, quickly took my Iowa preacher’s kid of a fiancée aside and gave him his first lesson in how to accommodate his little Scarlett O’Thirsty. He did this while holding his own wife upright so she didn’t collapse into a puddle of perfume and Pinot Grigio.

Seventeen years later, my now husband is affectionately known as “Sir Pours Alot”. He’s a good learner. He’s dangerously chivie. Ask my friends, Sharon Chardonnay and Ivana Shiraz. They’ll confirm - Anita Leesh…

So, in answer to the burning question you didn’t ask, yes, there are many faces of Anita. Don’t fret; I’m not going all Sybil here. There’s not a nine-year-old boy lurking in my psychic corner waiting to peg you with a spitball or anything. But there is definitely more to Anita than Merlot.

I, Anita, am a complex, multi-layered Vidalia onion of a woman. Sweet and juicy, but I’ll still bring you to tears if you cut me wrong. If I seem simple on the outside, it’s because I am a teeming mass of emotional depth on the inside. If “teeming mass” brings to mind a Medusa-like tangle of neurotic baggage, then you’re on the right track. We grow ‘em like that in the South. Granted, it’s mostly due to our mother’s fondness for gin and Salems during pregnancy. Or, maybe the fact that we are taught from birth how to gaze adoringly at whom ever hands us a bottle. Milk to Merlot – it’s not a big leap.

Right now, for instance, Anita Peddie. See, that’s not scary-deep. Harmless, in fact. Its just toes. Better than say, Anita Strangleyew.

Right?
RIGHT???

That’s what I thought, darlin’. You’re just the cutest little thing….

Now, where were we? Oh yes…. Anita Merlot.

Dern Those Dams

“Yesterday, a crew from TV 9&10 came to the house to film the gutter dudes steaming ice dams off our roof.”

 

I will spend the rest of this blog explaining this single sentence because unless you live in a snowy clime, this is pure gibberish.

Let’s start at the top. TV 9&10. Not 9. Not 10. 9&10 – no spaces. “Ice Dams Left Steaming! Watch TV 9&10 @ 11.”

I’m used to stations picking just one number and sticking with it. But, oh no….

“Hey Dave! Let’s start a TV station! My favorite number is 9.”

“Well, then there, Dan – I feel real strong about 10, myself.”

 Not that it matters that much anymore since cable sticks channels willy-nilly. I think 9&10 is on 6. Go figure.

Here in Michigan, the network affiliates cover the entire state – which is actually, of course, two whole units connected by a rope bridge or something. You gotcher Upper and yer Lower. We live in the Upper Lower Peninsula. Get it? Yeah, me either. We also say we live in The Pinky. No use words much. Just point with hands.  See the pretty mitten?

So, some places in Michigan, its channel 9; other places it’s channel 10. There’s also TV 7&4 and the Fifth/Third Bank.  All this really means is that the weather is never accurate and I know more than I need to know about Sault St. Marie.  I have no idea what happened to the First, Second or Fourth banks.

Okay, next – Ice Dams. Never heard of ‘em.  In the South, when big long icicles stretch their crystal fingers from the roof, we celebrate and dance around them. We point. We ooh. We ahh. We break them off and throw them at our little sisters like lances. We suck on their dirty-tasting ends. All in all, we think they are gorgeous little gifts of Nature.

Turns out, as with most beautiful things, those icicles harbor a dangerous secret.

While we are doing our Pagan Ice Dance, their dirty little backsides are burrowing under our shingles, bent on destroying the very fiber of our soffits and fascias and other roof-y terms I’m throwing around as if I know what I’m talking about. And when they melt, my friend, they will leak. And when they leak, yea verily, we will not know why. Towels will be bunched up and pails will be put upunder. (I wanted to say “asunder” because I’m going all King James but it doesn’t work that so I made one up. Just roll with it.)

Bottom line? They must go. They must be steamed into oblivion. Gutter Dudes to the rescue! Why steam? Um… it vaporizes them before those sexy ‘cicles can cast their icy spell? No idea. Zero. But it looked all high techy and cool.

Channel 9&10 wanted to commend us on the wise solution on our Fudgitudinal Ignorance. I’m surprised they didn’t put a banner at the bottom of the screen, “Fudgies Contribute to Local Economy During First Winter Up North”

Still, the house looked good, I thought. And it is television, after all. I guess it’s kind of like calling your mom from Hollywood all giddy about getting that Preparation H commercial. Sometimes you just have to show your ass a little.

Sparks Fly

 

When I kissed my Studmuffin this morning, sparks flew. Even after 17 years, I still felt a jolt. It was electric. Even made me squeal a little!

Isn’t that sweet? Don’t you wish it was 12 degrees with zero humidity where you live? You, too, could get this same feeling every time you touched any freaking surface. Trust me – if the spark from my husband got me excited, the floor lamp and I are ‘bout to have a romp.

What the heck is up with this static? If I could harness the power of my fly-away hair, I could power the Upper Peninsula. Not a huge feat (or goal) but you know what I’m saying. Or possibly stick 100 balloons to a wall. You think there’s any money in that?

My dog rolls around on the floor and gets up looking like a Swiffer. My cat, not a fast learner, keeps putting his nose on things then jumping up, all four feet at once, when he gets zapped. Now my husband and I ground ourselves before we kiss. Oh, and it’s pretty important not to wear socks to bed. …just sayin’.

Southern girls don’t do static. We do hairspray. I guess I could try to lacquer it down? But I was raised to lacquer it up! I don’t get it.

I keep asking for solutions. “Welcome to Northern Michigan!” “One more thing to get used to, Dixie!” This is not helpful.

So far, I’ve conditioned into Uber-flatness. I’m all about the flat straight hair, but now I look like a Manson girl. Flat and straight just means the static-y hairs get more loft. Exorcist. These are not good looks.  I’ve sprayed it with Downey (a globby mess) and run a Bounce sheet all through it (greasy but Springtime Fresh). I still have to get a metal rod with which to redirect the electricity. To where? My hand?  The rod? What am I, the creepy Star Wars dude?

I could just do a hat. You can’t take it off, of course. That’s even more of a freak show. Plus, I look like crap in hats. So do you. Sorry.

My 14 year old doesn’t have this problem. He’s a dude. He just quit using shampoo. This is somehow in style. Idk why.

My bff’s don’t seem to have this problem. Is their hair acclimated somehow? Did Mother Nature just say, “I’ve been on that broad for years. Let’s find some Fudge to irritate.” If they have a secret, they’re not sharing it with me. I think that’s a little passive-aggressive, don’t you?  If we were in Texas, I would let them borrow my Final Net and my rat-tail comb! See? Now I’m irked.

Uh oh. I just caught my husband dragging his feet around the bedroom, grinning like a hyena. He’s coming in for the smooch!

He is so getting some sock tonight….