Fungus Among Us

There was lightening and thunder last night which, in my book, means it’s spring. I’ve been warned about planting my flower boxes until Memorial Day but I’m pretty sure I can toss the flannel jammies.

I’m used to a good ole Southern Spring. It’s about two weeks of moderate temps and hellacious weather.

There are lots of wildflowers blooming everywhere, thanks to Lady Bird Johnson. Bluebonnets and Indian Paintbrush and Black-eyed Susans. Ha-chooo! But it’s so pretty!!

In Texas, when you see a car pulled off the road, it’s because some mom is making her whole family traipse out into a field of wildflowers for a picture.
 

Up North it’s because some fool with a walking stick is bent double hunting up Morels.

Dixie translation: Morel mushrooms are brown turd-sponges that are soooo mysteriously hard to find, everyone acts like they love to eat them even though, like all fungus, they taste like dirt.

It’s a verb: morelling. You don’t “hunt for morels” – you “go morelling”.  In the summer, they go the same brand of crazy for a rock. Go figure.

I set out today to do a little morelling. Although you’re supposed to keep it a big, fat secret, I’ll tell you flat out that I went straight up the hill behind my house. I’m way too lazy to break a sweat or read a compass or pack a lunch.

As with All Things Anita, there must be a costume.  In this case, I went with the classic sock-and-sandal combo.
 

You gotta have a good Pokin’ Stick, too.

Birch is prettiest but it kept breaking. I found an awesome forked stick but it kept leading me to the creek. After a gruesome battle with some ginormous black ants, I gave up on nature and settled for a broomstick handle from the laundry room.
Very low score from the organic hippie judges but pokin’ is pokin’ aannnd I’m going to stop right there because about 32 inappropriate stick jokes are trying to butt into this paragraph…

Assuming I can actually find an Elusive Morel, there’s a picky little protocol about transporting them out of the forest. One must use a mesh bag so the mushroom spores will scatter as you walk and therefore propagate the forest floor with new morel birthing opportunities. I think that’s putting a lot of pressure on a person – impregnating a forest.

So, hi-ho, hi-ho, it’s off to poke I go.




I scared up a buncha squirrels and chipmunks. A small herd of whitetail ‘bout scared the crap outta me. I poked and wandered and tried to get inside the mind of a morel.



I kept getting distracted by other stuff. I think that may be part of the allure for those people who don’t have a blog to wrap up.
 
My trusty Side Cat followed me around at a discreet distance. He stalked many a critter, pounced many a leaf but, alas, did not lead me to the morels. I was kinda counting on his mojo, but no-go.
 
I squatted down to take this picture of him and happened to look at my feet. Would you believe it? A little morel was poking its head out of the leaves. Then I saw another and another! The perfect ending!

Isn’t that unbelievable?

Yes, my friend. Yes, it is.

I didn’t find any damn morels. Even though I spent 25 whole minutes searching my back yard.

Turns out I’m not that patient or persistent. Or observant. Or stealthy.

I guess the FBI was right to reject my application in college.

At least I got the “blend in to your environment” part right.

Big Butt Little Britches

It has come to my attention that certain people think I’m a little too big for my britches.

I’ll admit to not giving my badonkadonk enough of a vote while shopping. The Girls are loud and it’s two against one. Then sometimes I forget to turn around in those blinking florescent dressing rooms. Sometimes they’re just too darn small. Sometimes I forget to care.

For instance, if the last three get-ups I’ve strapped on have been bathing suits, it doesn’t really matter what comes next. A) I can’t focus properly because I’m still snow-blind from the Thigh Exposure and b) if it buttons without oxygen deprivation – buy it!

If I’m having some doubts, I let the price tag be the gauge.

“Oh hell, for $21.99 I can make this work.”

“What? Half off? Surely I can find something orange to match these shoes!!

or my favorite

“OMG! I love this! When I lose 10 pounds it will zip right up!”

I’ve ‘bout $20-dollared myself into the Poor House at TJ Maxx, y’all. I have a closet of cheap orange clothes from 1999 still waiting for that 10# to slough off.

So, yes, usually, my butt is too big for my britches. Oh wait, that’s not what you mean?

It’s the Fudgie thing again, isn’t it? Too hoity-toity?

Maybe that’s it – you’re threatened by my advanced vocabulary. Words like “hoity-toity” and “badonkadonk?

Well, I’m fiddinda ‘splain a few things to you, idjit.
(probably that sentence, to start…)

If you feel like I’m talking over your head, it’s probably because you’re staring at my ta-tas. Look up.

Perhaps you don’t understand my accent? Do all my words sound like sound like I’m suckin’ on a big ‘ole cherry Popsicle? Dude, I mean it. Look UP!

Do my southern colloquialisms confuse you? Really? Gee, I’m sorry. You’re right. It’s not funny.

Here’s a little secret. (I’ll probably lose my Scarlett Card over sharing this) Sshhhhhhh…

YOU’RE WEIRD, TOO.

But, you don’t think so. Which makes it twice as funny.

Sugar, I know my sky-high shoes are too slut-puppy. 

 

But, did you notice that you’re wearing birth control on your feet?

No, the new Mephisto sandals are still not cute. Nice try.

Go ahead and cluck at me while I’m lapping up a juicy steak, a loaded baked potato and a fat glass of merlot.
I’m sure your leafy greens, hardy legumes and Tofu Tar Tar are just yum yum yummy.



I will still leave a prettier corpse: young, plump and smiling.
You will need extra embalming fluid and a Beano.

You say, my hair’s too poofy and my butt’s too poochy and my boobs are too poochy AND poofy.
I say, didn’t your mama teach you The Three B’s?
Blowdryer, béarnaise, for Newton’s sake, brassiere!





If I showed up bra-less, in Birkenstocks and
hemp pants, sayin’ “soda” and “you guys”,
Mama Merlot would fall over in her collard greens.






Newsflash: I’m not from here.
I’m not gonna fake it.
Okay, I am gonna fake it – but not the Yankee part.

You want fudge?
I can slather that with Fluff and graham crackers and southern fry that.
But don’t bite off more than you can chew.

Too big for my britches? Ya think?