Fudgie Packer

I’ve been feeling pretty full of myself about the way I’ve weathered
my first Up North winter.

I rocked the Yankee Look, with the exception of a couple of lumberjack-style disasters. I didn’t bust my ass on the ice, except while walking across the frozen expanse of Glen Lake – which I’m just not going to count. I did not succumb to the temptation of letting my pieces-parts go all Sasquatchy.

Didn’t gain 20 pounds. Didn’t get stuck or wrapped around a tree or hit a deer. Didn’t get lost in a snowdrift. Didn’t go bat-shit crazy.

Much to everyone’s disappointment.

Turns out one of winter’s most funnest activities ever is watching the newbies lose their marbles.

I could see the slow smile build just after I told you we’d just moved up here from Dallas. Oh, you were sweet as cherry pie:

“Reallllly?! From Texas!  Have you ever seen snow?”
“Oh, I’m sure you’ll just love it here. You’ll need to lose those shoes, of course….”
“Well, let me know who you find to color your hair. I’ve always wanted to do something daring like that to mine.”

Well, ya’ll – I did it.

Last week the snow melted, the sun was brilliant and we had a bright, welcoming mega-moon to celebrate Spring Solstice.

And I packed my sweaters and boots away.

Cue Winter Storm Warning. Drop 12+ inches of snow. Hit your marks, Snowplows! Zoom in on single digit temps, please. Perfect. Action!

I was very petulant. I had my big ‘ole pouty mouth going. (I glossed it up for full effect) How could this happen? Why? WHY?

Why? Because the Fudgie put her boots away.

I jinxed it. All my fault. Turns out, I didn’t make it through winter after all. I blew it in the homestretch.

I would apologize but y’all look so damn smug.
And, warm. In your not-yet-packed boots and sweaters and all.

As for me, I drove through the absolute worst winter weather to date. Total white out, no one on the road but my silly Dixie butt – even the snowplows were a no-show.

I thought I was being very “local” by shaking my fist at this Spring Squall. I mean, hell, I needed to get to the dern dang mall to accessorize my cruise costumes, right?

By the time I got there, I had to pry my fingers off the steering wheel, my shoulders off my ears and the car seat out of the crack of my ass.

I bought a pair of earrings and an Orange Julius.
Then I drove back home a humbled Fudgie.

Which really irks me. I hate acting like a Fudgie, I generally don’t do “humble” and now I have a freakin’ frothy orange upper lip.

Great White Exposure

It’s the middle of March and I’m itching to expose myself.

If not all of me, at least the long expanse of albino giraffe neck I’ve been hiding under turtlenecks for six months. Okay, four months – whatever. In October, I was all excited about it. Soooooo over it now.

Now, I’m all geared up for the Great Seasonal Closet Switch! Out with the dark, moody sweaters, the bemoaned turtlenecks and, god knows, those damn puffy vests. In with short sleeves, bright colors and open-toed shoes!!!

…I woke up to six more inches. And not the good kind. The cold, wet, “Get out the shovel, Myrtle” kind. Really?

Here’s the deal. Spring Break is coming up and I’m going on a cruise. To the Caribbean. To the sun. Halle-freakin-lujah.

And, somehow, I have to transform Anita Snoshew into Anita Kittenheele. Anita Puffer into Anita Tankini. Anita Merlot into Anita Mojito.

The first step is seeing if my winter ass still fits into my cruise-y capris. Well, actually, the first step is hauling the tubs of summer clothes up from the basement. I guess I’m all ready for summer since I’m sweaty now.

Second step is preparing some Numbing Juice, which I swish and swallow. You can buy this locally under the brand name, Grey Goose.

I’m ready for the Trying On Process. Since I’m currently on a diet and plan to lose this last 26 pounds in the next 10 days, I think it’s fair to wear Spanx to try on stuff, don’t you?

[Hours pass. Dogs hide. Husband fetches more Juice. Then runs.]

I think most of it will work but I can’t really tell because of the glare coming off my ghost-like skin. I’m a beacon of bright whiteness. I practically glow.

The only people that would think I’m hot are my dermatologist and Colonel Sanders.  I am in no danger of UV damage and I’m sporting the whitest breast meat on the market.

I put self tanner on my Meijer list. Along with pumice stone and lots of shaving cream.

As I’m flipping around in my flops, I start to notice a little ouchie between my toes. My soft, sock-cradled piggies are rebelling against this strappy interloper. It’s clear I’m going to have to toughen up my Thong Toe.

There’s still two feet of snow in my front yard and I’m still using my dogs as foot-warmers at night. But, I’ve put away my fuzzy slippers in favor of lime green “training” flip-flops. My closet is now a cheerful rainbow and the boots are in the basement.

The signs of spring have sprung!


In the South, we look for blooming daffodils, fresh, green grass and symptoms of hay fever.








Up North, well… my neighbor took the plow off his truck. I can see the blacktop on the driveway and my flower boxes are starting to unfreeze so I can finally pull out the fake poinsettias.


Personally, I’ve committed to consistent shaving
and a Mystic Tan.




Honey? You can come out now…

Cows: Hats, Boots, Boys & Balls

I’ve told you, in gory detail, about all the new experiences I’ve had since shedding my Fudgiedom and staying Up North all permanent-like.


Last week, I shed my puffy vest and headed back to Texas for a little HenFest, which is a bunch of women getting together and clucking incessantly.

After landing at Dallas/Ft Worth Airport, I did something a little different. Instead of turning right to go to Dallas, I turned left and headed into Fort Worth. Ok, I don’t actually know which way I turned or if it was East or West or what. Let’s just say I turned the Other Way, okay?

Now, I don’t know diddly squat about Ft. Worth. Dallasites consider it the country cousin although there’s probably more money floating around Ft. Worth than there are pageant queens in Plano. Still, Ft. Worth is way more Texan than it’s shiny counterpart. More cowboy history, more cowboy boots and cowboy hats, more cow …um… everything.  
                Better watch where you walk.

Us chickens decided to plop down in the very heart of it – The Fort Worth Stockyards. The Stockyards are what everyone outside of Texas thinks Texas is really like. It’s like going to Mackinaw Island and saying you’ve been to Michigan. It’s the Texas Fudge Spot.

Where else do they actually have a cattle drive down Main Street? Well, nowhere because it’s stupid. They drive the same fifteen longhorns down the same three-block stretch two times every day. All the little Yanklets squeal and point and back up in case there’s a stampede. Not much chance, I think I saw an Eli Lilly brand on a few of them. They get free Prozac samples from their vet.

Now, let’s talk food. Specifically calf fries. That’s a little more interesting. Especially after you’ve seen the size of the bulls in the cattle drive.

There are plenty of farms Up North so I’m sure there’s lots of necessary cutting of the dangly parts, right? You with me? But, do y’all actually dredge said parts in cornmeal and fry ‘em up? I’m thinking not - but you do that to your baitfish, so who knows?

Here’s some helpful signage showing the actual gonad before and after a boiling bacon grease bath.

Tasty looking, huh? Let’s just cut right into that, dip it in some ketchup and pop it in our pie-holes!  (1/3 of you saying “Hell yeah!”, 1/3 gagging & 1/3 crossing your legs protectively)

Before laying a lip on any animal testicles, it’s best to prepare your palette with plenty of; oh I don’t know, say, beer? Tequila? A combination of the two? Luckily, I kept that bottle handy because I definitely felt the need to rinse and repeat afterwards. I don’t think Scope wudda cut it.

There’s no better place to getcher Courage Juice on than Booger Red’s.

Sam “Booger” Privett was a famous red headed bronc rider born in 1864. Unfortunately he was also an idiot who boogered up most of his face up in a fireworks snafu. From then on he was nicknamed “Booger Red”, a name he made famous in The Booger Red Wild West Wagon Show. Me? I just like saying “booger”.

The bar has saddles for barstools and a signature margarita that was just calling my name. No, really, it’s called the Anita-Rita. It’s made with fresh limes and Serrano peppers. Refreshing with a bite, thank you very much.



We girls ate beef (several parts, unfortunately), drank tequila, bought a cowgirl costume and cat-called cute cowboys. I have to tell you, I acted just like a picture-takin’, finger-pointin’, cowboy-oglin’, squealy little tourist. In other words, a Fudgie. In my own damn state. Whooda thunk it?




P.S.  When I got back to D/FW to wait for my flight back North, this was my view:
 

And, of course, this guy was sniffing around the “hen house” all weekend.

Frozen Holes

I walked across the lake the other day.
Now, before everyone south of Indiana starts bringing me their blind, I need to clarify: the lake was frozen.

I know! Frozen enough to walk on!!! It was the first time I had ever stepped foot on a frozen body of water.
Scary cool. (Actually, "frighteningly cold" is more accurate as it was about 13 degrees.)

My destination: The Junior Clam. "Blue canvas ice shanty two left of the other two but not the one in the middle."

The Hole Whisperers

These superb directions meant that we started walking from the Boat Dock (I call it the "Put In") and walked 3/4 of the way across the lake to the Clam.
We shudda started from the other side.

This means my first words upon Clam Arrival was something to the tune of, "We shudda started from the other side."
There was, perhaps, a reference to the fishermen's intelligence or maybe even something about the marital state of their parents when they were born.

They were too cold to speak but I think they shrugged their shoulders at me. Hard to tell through their ice fishing finery.
I was nice and toasty from my completely unintentional hike.
I was (as I usually am when forced to exert) sweaty and bitter and prone to sarcasm.
Hard to picture, I know! I'm usually so sweet!

I looked back from whence we came. It was your basic long, white expanse of flatness. Punctuated by our tiny, tenuous footsteps and one big, ugly scar from when I fell down.

Turns out underneath all that pretty snow is ice. It's slippery. Go figure.

More disturbing, it's clear.

When you look down under your feet, you see...nothing. Water, I guess. Like a glass-bottom boat. Really, really creepy.
When I fell, I knew I was going to go straight into the lake.
No matter that I had fifteen ice shanties and three snowmobiles in my line of vision. They seemed pretty stable.
I thought my mignon-eatin', merlot-drinkin' ass was going down, for sure.

At least my body would still look good in the casket since I would be instantly frozen and preserved until they fished me out in the Spring.
I had on clean underwear and a fresh manicure. My Hike-To-The-Ice-Shanty costume was pretty cute. It wasn't all bad, right?

Well, the ice was about eighteen inches deep, the Stud of Stability hauled me up right away and my well-fed/dressed/manicured ass was on the ice for about two seconds.
While my internal dialogue was lengthy, dramatic and fraught with symbolic imagery, the external dialogue sounded something like,
"You good?"
"Yup."

Oh how I love being a woman.....

Finally, after this death-defying hike, we reached the Junior Clam. 
Inside there's just enough room for two grown men to stare at their holes for six hours.
Maybe when you graduate to the Senior Clam, there's room the banjo player.

I really don't understand this particular hobby.
Why would you want to haul all an entire house onto the ice, dig a hole and shiver over it for the day?
Granted, the beer stays real, real cold.
But, an ice shanty is too small to odiforously fart in and you can't really scratch your balls through five pairs of pants.
That's pretty much the prerequisites for Guy Time, right?
What am I missing here?

In the South, guys just loll around in the warm den and watch either football or NASCAR, depending on the season.
They drink beer, eat Velveeta Cheese Dip and absently wave their Frito-Farts away, leaving just enough of a whiff for a congratulatory fist-bump.
"Nice one, Earl."

I would not suggest an open flame in the Junior Clam.  ...just sayin'...

I got a little tour, some basic instruction and tried my hand at the Hole.
I think we were using yesterday's Smelt leftovers for bait.
I didn't get any nibbles but I think I brought a little class and sophistication to the experience.

Guess which one is me!

The guys got to trot out all the standard fishing jokes on me. They're the same ones I heard on Texoma at 4:00am bass fishing with my PawPaw.
My favorite is the one where the fisherman justifies his lack of fishing prowess by exalting his mastery of the use of bait.
Makes me laugh every time but joke is a little too tacky even for this, the tackiest of blogs. You have no idea how bad I want to use that punchline as the title right now....
For the fourteen people who don't get it, I'll post it on the SFF facebook page.

After posing for the photo op, I was escorted by one of the Masters to the other side of the lake. It was a little easier since we were able to walk in the drag marks of the Clam Trail.
Then he drove me home in his lovely, warm car.

I said I walked across the lake. That doesn't mean I had to walk back.

Besides, I was cold and my lips were turning blue.
Which a) is not a good color on me and b) totally clashed with my costume.

In the end, Action Figure Dave did indeed become a Master Fisherman!

This prompted whole 'nother round of jokes about how he got that big fish out of that little, bitty...
Never mind.

This is definitely one of those times that.....

Anita Merlot