Tipped Off

Glen Arbor is a long way away from SoHo, y’all.
It’s 45 minutes away from the nearest Wal-Mart even.
Needless to say, it’s a long, long way away from Navy French Tips.

I drove home from my manicure Tip tapping on the steering wheel and wailing Lady
Gaga to the on coming traffic. If I’m not the hippest thang in a Buick Enclave, I’ll kiss your cold, white patootie.

And, certainly, the hippest mom to sell a Glen Lake Lakers hoodie at the football game! Am I right? Huh? Am I?   …..you can see where this is headed.....

My spirit wear selling colleague, whom I barely know and is already suspicious of my Big City Southern Fudgie ways, didn’t notice anything at first. I knew when she did because of the little “Oh!” she emitted while I was making change. I turned around expecting to see stark naked envy on her face. She was choking on her tongue trying not to laugh.

“Jeez o’Pete!”, she gasped. “Let me see your nails!”

She looked from my hand to my face like she was expecting to see Amy Winehouse or a Vegas stripper.

“Pretty sassy, huh?”, I beamed. “I just felt like doing something a little different!”

“I guess I’ve never seen something like that before.”, she murmered, smiling indulgently at me.

“It’s new! It’s very “in” right...um...now” I was starting to pick up on the vibe here.

There was no fist bump. No “Dang, sista! You are rockin’ those tips!”.
No “I’ve got to get me some of that business so I can be as cool as you, girlfriend!”.

Oh my god. What have I done? Who do I think I am? This is ridiculous. Ree. Dick. U. Luss.
I’m a middle aged Mom selling t-shirts at a freakin’ football game in a town the size of my Dallas Pilates class. Who in the hell am I kidding? Good Lord... I need a cotton ball and a bottle of acetone.

We were saved from our awkward, gaping mouth moment by a beautiful Freshman asking if we had any Smalls left. She looks at my nails. Then up at my face. Then over at the stands - no doubt, seeking salvation from one of her equally adorable covey.

(Okay. A few years ago, I was at Disney World. A teenaged FiFi walked by and I said brightly, “Hey! I have that same shirt!”
The look of horror that passed across that child’s face.... wow.
She was looking at someone’s Mother who was telling her she had the same shirt???
She gasped, grabbed her friend’s hand for support and was trying to get that shirt off her body as fast as possible. Humbling....)

My totally topped off tips were getting that same reaction right now.
The face. The choking horror.
My dawning realization that the flush I was feeling was not the flush of greatness but a hot flash working it’s way up my neck.

“Wow! Those are awesome, Mrs. Merlot.” Mrs. Merlot???

I told her I didn’t have any damn Smalls left and she should buy the Large now and put it in her closet because one day, before she knows it, she will puff up like a blowfish and the only things that will fit her are shoes and purses and then she will be forced to desperately try to recapture her youth by slapping on some ridiculously trendy shit on her nails.

It just looked so cute on the [key word] girl sitting next to me........



Aside: It took me over two weeks to get back to CJ and my boring old Mom Mani. During that time, everyone got a big laugh, I made a new friend at the Spirit Booth and the kids admitted that they did think it was kinda cool. I mean, they weren’t posing for pictures with me or anything, but I think they might be starting to get used to me.

Gettin' Tippy

It just looked so cute on the girl sitting next to me.

I was getting my nails done and she had this dead sexy red - just on the tips.
Like a French manicure? But with color? So more of a Naughty French Maid vibe.

As sassy as I like to think I am, I tend to keep the Ho on the Down Low.
French tips on the nails - Hooker Red on the toes.
I figure if someone is looking that close at my feet, they have a little nasty thang goin' anyway, right? I make their day.

The truth is, I wave my hands around a lot when I talk.
If there's color on there, people start getting all glassy-eyed and try to follow the streaks flashing through the air.
I worry they aren't really listening to me.
I worry they are starting to get hypnotized.
I worry about whether or not they've ever dropped acid and what is the proper etiquette when a PTA mom has a flashback in the middle of pie and coffee.

But those nails….. I don't know….. they were kinda speaking to me.
They were saying things about adventure and spontaneity, reckless youth and whole days without Ibuprofen.

"I'm kinda diggin' Sue's nails.", I said, casually, to CJ, my hunky MANicurist. "What do you think?"

"It's new. She does black sometimes, too. Wanna do it?", he ventured.

"Oh Lord, no - I'm too old. I'm really not that hip. I could never commit to a color. Way to old."

I kept up in this vein for a good five minutes until CJ stilled his mighty file and said, "It's paint."

Good point - the paint. Not a tattoo. Not a life choice. Paint.

And still, it took me two more trips. Two more exposures to Sue's completely cool nails.
(Black the next time, "shattered" silver after that.)

"Let's do this thing", I told CJ, with much boldness and bravado.

"Atta girl - pick a color!" and he pointed me to the Wall of Choices.

I'm walking. I'm walking. The Wall is getting farther and farther away. I swear I see twin girls standing in front of it. I'm waiting for one of them to whisper "Redrum. Redrum."
I look back at CJ, my panic evident. He rolled his eyes and possibly mumbled "Oh, for the love of God…" under his breath. Or maybe "Redrum". God knows he was thinking it.

Okay, so red goes with everything. But it's a little obvious. I already have these naughty little piggies working.
Black is damn sassy but I'm a 45 year old mother. That’s trying too hard. Next thing you know I'll have a toe ring.
Blue? Kind of sassy - kind of safe. A little childish. I think I saw a 5 year old with blue nails yesterday.
What if I call it "Navy"? That's classy sounding….
Navy says, "I'm wearing a Ralph Lauren blazer now but in the '80's I was all Devo, baby."
Oh yeah. I am makin' a statement now, by crackie!

Overthinking? Perhaps.

And, of course, there is no "Navy" so I make CJ mix two colors to get the exact level of classy-sassy a girl like me requires.
His eye is twitching but he's a trooper.
I already make him crazy with the PInk & White and the buffing when everyone knows Shellac is the way to go.

By now, the entire salon is invested in this decision.
The "entire salon" being three technicians giving two manicures to septuagenarians and one pedicure to a diabetic who just hauled himself out of the scooter.
To say I had the floor is an understatement. To say it was due to my comic timing is an overrstatement.
This was big entertainment for a Tuesday afternoon. At Meijer.
(oh! did you think I was at FiFi's FooFoo Salon? Nope. Best mani in town is just a slab of glass away from the checkout line, baby!)

 
So. Much ado and 20 minutes later, I was tipped and hip and ready to show the world just how fashion-forward I can be!

I sashayed through my shopping, clicking my New Nails on the cart handle the whole way.






I felt young and hip and ready to whirl off on an adventure at the drop of a hat!
What's this? A new Rubbermaid line? Purple handles on the storage bins? Oh hell yes!!!  I am so getting that.


That was Day One - Hour One.

Then I got back to Glen Arbor.

…..to be continued......

Pedal Pusher

The fresh breath of summer. Crisp, cool mornings erupt into sun-drenched afternoons then dissolve into picture perfect sunsets. The lakes warm to a balmy 62 degrees and fill with hardy wake boarders, skiers, surfers and Frisbee flingers.

And like the annual onslaught of swarming black flies come the color-coordinated, spandex-assed bikers riding three abreast on the winding lakeshore roads.

People like to stay healthy and fit. The allure of not too hot/not too cold calls out to you weekend warriors. I get it. Ok – not really, but I sympathize (yes "sympa" not "empa") with your need to exert.

Hey – “mi blacktop, su blacktop” and all that. But, really? Really?  I’m driving a huge Mom Mobile. I’m right behind you. There’s nowhere for me to go except right smack over your tight, healthy little tushie.

I don’t mean to be snarky. (oh no…never….) but you do realize that except for the runners, joggers and speed walkers, everything on the road is much bigger than you, right? And faster?

Oh wait. No, not faster. Because I am behind you and although I see your little clipped-in feet going all hamster-on-a-wheel fast, you’re still going slower than I can idle.

In all these years, I’ve only flipped one biker the bird and it turned out to be my buddy, Action Figure Dave.  Busted.

Truth be told, I got talked into a bicycle up here one summer.

The BoogerButt was at that youngling age where he could ride for days and never get tired of it. Stud Muffin, being a stud muffin, could/can hop on anything and go for days.

I, being a Southern Dixie Princess, fell over getting out of the driveway and had a bladder infection within a block.
My hair was plastered to my forehead, my mascara was running and the stitches on the spandex were stretched out so much it looked like I was wearing a corset.

There was no “clipping in”; no logo-laden unitard. There was a butt-ugly helmet borrowed from my mother-in-law (c. 1978) and clothespins on my pant legs.

I stuck it out for about 45 minutes then peddled over to the Dune Dog stand for a Chicago all the way and some fries.

Not being one to give up on my (deeply) buried athletic abilities, Stud Muffie bought me the perfect bike. Big, cushy seat, high handlebars and an electric motor.

From afar, my new rig looked like a normal person’s bike.
It sounded a little like a mosquito but all I had to do was not fall over. Even that takes enough effort for me to break a sweat, trust me.

Whirrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.   Off I go. I’m lovin’ it. The wind whistling through my helmet vents. The beauty of nature a bright green blur beside me. My legs pumping furiously……

Wait a minute. My legs are not pumping. This is an electric bike. I’m just perched on top of it – riding.

And now a car is coming. Awkward.

I lean over the handlebars, scootch my butt back on the seat and start pedaling my heart out. I don’t smile and wave – I’m way to into my fitness, man. Plus, I have to throw a hand signal out so they know I know my stuff.

The problem is the bike is actually in some high (or low – I don’t know which) gear and the pedals are ridiculously loose. I’m going up enough of a hill that even I know I should be in one of those “grind it out” gears and here my legs are in Hamster Mode.

I do this five more times.
Perch and ride.
Car coming.
Get low and pump.
Car passes.
Perch and ride.

I’m faking all this effort and, still, my thighs are starting to burn.

Then I get to Burdickville Hill. It’s a real long hill, y’all. Highest point on the lake. At the top is a scenic lookout called Inspiration Point. It’s beautiful. You can see Big Glen, Little Glen, Sleeping Bear Dunes and, on a clear day, on out to Lake Michigan and the baby bear islands.

The little motor on my bike starts to wind down. Then sputter. It ain’t makin’ it. You’re kidding me.

I pedal a little to give it a break. This works for five minutes. Long enough for me to turn beet red and scrape my ankle on the chain twice.

The motor farts once and quits. So on the biggest BEAST of a hill, I have to actually exert – a lot! – on a bike that, due to the motor, weighs a kajillion pounds more than Tour de France boy’s– who just passed and hollered, “Lookin’ good! You can do it!”

And now, of course, there are two Suburbans, three Jeeps and a Model T climbing up my ass.

The guy behind me toots his horn just a little. I look back.
It’s Dave.

He’s laughing while he flips me the bird.
Ah.... the irony.

* For more about Anita’s non-athleticism, click to read “Natural Born Leaner”.

Bad Bang

In a fit of pique, I hacked my bangs like a 15 yr old in a love triangle. In fact, I haven’t butchered my hair like this since I was a 15 yr old in a love triangle.

 

While I am prone to both the hair brush throwing hissy fit and the occasional boogered up bang job, rarely do I break anything or cause (semi) irreparable damage. But this is bad, y’all. It’s a real bad sign.

The other day, after picking the shells off the umpteenth hardboiled egg, I went postal on a particularly stubborn one and just crushed the whole damn thing in my fist and threw it in the sink. The crunch of the shell combined with the warm squoosh of the innards was so satisfying that I did it again on a perfectly innocent one. There is no comin back from a smooshed-ass egg, y’all. Major irreparable.

Out of two dozen eggs, four of them felt the wrath of my pre-menopausal impatience.

Cheaper than therapy; easier on the liver than Merlot.

When my brand new Stick Vac quit after sweeps, I held it over my head and aimed it out the window. The image of having to clean up all that shattered glass without said Stick Vac stopped me before I let her fly. So I walked outside and tossed it, with great indignation, into the yard.

Then, of course, I picked all the grass out of the handle, found the receipt and took it back to Meijer.

See? I’m not a hysterical 47 year old, hormonal lunatic.

My sweet Stud Muffin totally agreed with me when I asked them that very question just this morning while I was using his super-sharp filet knife to carve up a chicken. He gently took the knife from my hand, agreed wholeheartedly that I was not psycho and graciously offered to finish all that nasty cutting. He’s a pip, that one.

So the whole hair whack job has me in a dither.

I’m going to have to go to my hair chick and admit to cutting my own bangs. Then I’ll have to admit to the Hissy Fit. Then she’ll sweetly ask what on earth was wrong? And then I’ll have to admit that it was nothing more than me being tired of tucking that little patch we were trying to grow out behind my ear every five freakin’ seconds.

“Well, we don’t have to worry about tucking it behind your ear now, do we, honey?”

Witch.

Then she’ll talk me into layers so my bangs will blend. Which will look great after she puts three brands of goop in it, blows it, curls it, fluffs it and lacquers it down but will look like living hell after two seconds on the boat or in the Jeep or in the morning FOR CRYING OUT LOUD!!!

Oh my. Oh my my…

This is when Brittany got the scissors out. This is when Carrie Underwood carved her name in the leather seats. This is when Charlie popped open the Tiger Juice.

But not me, y’all. Southern women are bred for civility and gracious forbearance.

This is when I uncork the bottle.

My name ain’t Anita Merlot for nothin’….

Picking & Grinning

 

I knew summer was here when my friend, Ivana Shiraz, laughed so hard she snorted out a booger.

That’s good stuff, my friend. This is not a woman who one would think could even cultivate a booger; much less bring one forth the size of a cheese curd.

Of course, we were all very gracious and civilized about the whole thing. Are you kidding me? NOT! Much ado was made and we’ve changed her name to Ivana Kleenex for at least thirty days.

She was/is mortified. Which, actually, is the funniest part and is why we won’t let it die. Ever. In fact, I’m going to stop typing for a second to text her.

“Booger”  Send.  I hope she’s in public right now.

After nine straight months of turtlenecks and puffy vests, there’s something about sitting out on the deck with a snapping hot burger and an ice-cold concoction. Throw in some new friends who haven’t heard all your jokes, a little more liquid refreshment and a spontaneous nostril eruption and you’ve set a the bar prettttty high for the summer.

You’ll forgive me for not having pictures for this little post?

Neither Ivana nor the booger would give me permission to print.

I promise, however, a summer full of Up North summer adventures complete with photographic evidence!

The Morel Whisperer

Since I wrote about my fungus failure, I’ve been inundated with offers to take me to some Very Secret Spots. I have to confess that strangers wanting to blindfold me and drive me into isolated areas make me a wee bit nervous.

One offer, however, had me grabbing my mesh bag and lacing up my hiking boots. He is, none other than, The Morel Whisperer.

I was wearing the traditional morelling attire. (Although it was pointed out that full camo was overkill since morels don’t tend to run away). I think my guide was actually the one in camo since his costume was exactly the opposite of what They tell you to wear. He’s tricky, no? Those little turd-heads will never suspect a thing.

He was incredulous to watch some other car pull into his double-secret spot. There were mumbled curses and not so subtle gesturing.

“Just pull up a little further. We can climb this hill then drop back down in the valley behind them.”

“Um. Climb the hill?”
 Had this guy ever met me?

I grabbed a water bottle and a compass and we headed out.

The Whisperer was very impressed with my attention to detail. I stopped often to take a good look around. A really, really good look. He was far enough ahead. He couldn’t hear me gasping for oxygen.

When I caught up, he was standing, hands on hips, shaking his head.

“Nothing here but stupid fake ones.”

I was standing in a field of mushrooms. Smack dab and I never even noticed them. Novice.

Mo-Whisp taught me the difference between False Morels and the yummy ones; how the caps are not attached to the stems the same and how the insides look all fluffy. If I’d been alone, I would’ve been squealing and doing a Hunter-Gatherer Dance. Then I would have poisoned all my friends.

Alas, no morels. This spot was spent. Time to move on.

Ever the gentleman, my guide warned me that the next spot was a little bit of a hike. This dude had way more confidence, not only in my willingness to exert but also in my patience for tromping through underbrush.

I put the water bottle back and grabbed the flask.

It’s important to note that morelling involves staring intently at the ground. This means you walk through lots of spider webs, get whapped in the head with lots of branches and find lots of non-fungus-type stuff. I recommend a hat. I don’t recommend big ‘ole Texas hair. Just sayin’…

Tromp. Stare. Trudge. Whap. Curse. Sip. Stare. Tromp.

There's alot of things in the mighty forest. I found pretty little Trillium...

a log covered with something - I'll call it "lichen" because I like the way that word sounds.

I think I found a little pot patch and I definitely found a bad, bad ‘shroom because it was promptly slapped out of my hand.

“Do the deer eat morels?” I ask.
“Nope. Nothing eats morels except us.”

Then what the hell are they hiding from? Why the subterfuge? What’s the harm in making morels a nice bright yellow or something? Who can find these things?

Can you see it??

I forgot to put quotation marks around all that but I was indeed yelling this into the forest. I was ignored or even worse, indulged.

“When I was little,” quothe he, “I made all kinds of noise while we were morelling. My dad finally told me that if we weren’t quiet, the mushrooms would scoot back down in their holes.”

Can’t argue with that.

I swear – I looked high and low, moist and dry, around trees and under leaves. Nothing.

Then there it was. My first morel.

“I found one! I found one!” Whoop! Whoop!

Mo rounded the corner looking doubtful.

“Hey! You did it! There’s another one!” Double whoop!!

Another thin layer of fudge fell away from my Dixie personage.

Here's me with my pretty manicure. Oh, and the "lucky purple" bag of morels.

We found several more and he’s frying them up for me tonight.

My personal Morel Wrangler. What a sweetheart, huh?  I think he’s quite awesome.

Uh oh, y’all…. I’m getting all mush-y.

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.