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.

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?

Wanna Boogie?

In the grand scheme of things, a booger hanging out of your nose is not monumental. It wasn’t even a very big booger – it was peeking out quite politely, as far as boogers go.

It’s the discovery that is jarring.

How long has it been there?
How many people have I talked to?
How adorable did I think I was being while this booger was mocking me?

I’m pretty sure it wasn’t there when I got pulled over this morning for going 85 in a 55. I distinctly remember checking my lip-gloss in the mirror and practicing my “Golly Gosh Officer Sweetie Pie” grin.

Which, by the way, has never, ever gotten me out of a ticket. I have a lot of looks but “innocent” has never been one of them. I look alarmingly like Anita Spanken.

Today I must have looked like southern fried Fudge because my Texas license and, yes, dern dang adorable drawl kept me out of the pokey. I think a booger would have blown it for me, don’t you?

I met my Studmuffin for lunch and he didn’t say anything. Well, that’s not true – he said lots of things – but he never mentioned errant mucus. Although he’s the kind of guy that might just let it hang there for a cheap laugh.

It was only after a very serious conversation with a wig-fitter did I make the dread discovery. The horror!

Despite my effort to be business-like while surrounded by disembodied, yet well coiffed plastic heads, it was a challenge trying to describe the exact dimensions and hue that a chick like me requires.

Evidently “Big Ole Texas Hair” is not that common Up North. She needs details.

“Big.”, I say gesturing around my head. “Tall and big and… big.”

Blank stare. “What era?”

“Era? I don’t know… Texas!” More gesturing. “Texas Hair transcends an era!”

Crickets….

I feel like my father-in-law playing Pictionary. He draws two lines and then does Hurry Up Hands for the remaining 3:45 minutes.

I throw out more examples: NFL Cheerleaders, Miss America, Cher, Beyonce.
I actually watch the light bulb snap on above her head as she starts to form the mental picture. It was more like watching the florescent bulb in the garage flicker and slowly gain strength, but it was illumination. I’ll take it.

“What color?”

“A nice merlot, please.”

Do you think she thought I was a lunatic and felt too sorry for me to point out the booger? Like, that little booglet was the least of my issues?

She did look a little scared. I get that a lot. I always thought it was the accent. Or the cleavage.

Which brings us back to Officer Sweetie Pie…. 

Liverspot of the Seas

So, about this cruise….

We’re on a humongous boat, right? Freedom of the Seas holds something like 4500 passengers. That’s a lotta flesh lolling around on the pool deck, sister.

And it’s Spring Break so, as you would expect, there were a lot of families – who, evidently, all brought their grandparents. No sane adult would book a cruise during March unless they were related to that whining, snot-smeared mess. And yet, there were so many Maw Maws on that boat, they shudda re-named it Liverspot of the Seas.

Fortunately, all of them lusted heartily after The Cojones Brothers, which flattered and frightened them both. They’re cute that way.

The pasty-white American MeeMaws and PeePaws toddled around with hats and UV blocking pantsuits and discreet little gin & tonics. Appropriately polite and demure, they wandered in slo-mo around the pool deck or huddled in confusion in front of the elevators or stairs or buffet lines. Basically, smack dab in the middle of every ingress or egress.

The uber-tanned European Nonnies and Poppies bowled us all over going too fast, too loud and wearing too little. I agree that “tan fat looks better than pale fat” but, dude, if I can’t even tell if you are wearing a swimmie suit under there??  While I was pulling my Miracle Suit down over my own flat ass cheeks and up over my squooshed in uni-boob, I kept looking for Nonni’s thong strap. Any strap.  The…uh… vertical strippy strap was deep in the abyss. The waist straps were visible only one at a time during the side-to-side hip sway portion of the program.  Luckily, they were just a blur of body hair as hustled to cop a lounge chair in the sun.


We saw a unidentified “rap star’ with a bevy of women he rented from the Playboy Mansion. Beautiful bodies of indeterminate origin. They did not wiggle or bounce. Nor were they able to make facial expressions. But, as far as ornamentation goes, they won the prize. Even, I, Anita Merlot, an admitted aficionado of the high: heels, hair and hooters, stared in morbid fascination. Males, both toilet-trained and non, stared with a different kind of fascination. And found out later why they have that big table of jewelry on the Promenade Deck…

There was the guy that sang “My Way” at every single karaoke. He was pretty good. But, here’s a tip: no one likes a karaoke ballad. Ballad = Boring Buzzkill.  Even Frank himself would have left to go find Dino in the Casino.

There was the reallllly tall guy whose hands touched the ceiling when he got his boogie shoes on at the nightclub. Oh whoops… we know that guy! Step back from that ledge, my friend….  His own wife wouldn’t dance with him but some broad with too much badonkadonk for those skinny jeans was. Oh hell…. That was me.

Aside from that, our little grouplet was perfect. Duh.
No one got too drunk to find their stateroom, no one showed their boobs or butt (although one of us came perilously close during karaoke), our teenage Studmuffins-in-the-making made lots of friends and curfew and, most importantly, my water-proof mascara held up well.

I think next time, I go on a cruise, all y’all should go with me.

Everyone is a Fudgie when you’re in the middle of the deep blue sea!

The Cojones Brothers

I’m probably the only person to come home from a cruise less tan than when I left.

I was religious about schmearing self-tanner on my previously chronicled lily-whiteness. My embarkation photo is sun-basked and glowing. An excellent start.

But, as the week progressed, the nights got longer, the mornings got earlier, the shower got smaller and, frankly, I quit giving a flip.

To tell you the truth, I was feeling pretty superior. (never believe anyone who starts a sentence with “to tell you the truth”.)


By enduring three weeks of no-booze & no-carbs, I successfully lost enough of the winter lard to fit into my swimsuit without scaring small children. I got on the boat, had a couple of drinks with umbrellas and some crackers.

Poof! The next day, I looked in the mirror and saw the Michelin Man with orange streaks. Mrs. Puff Goes on Vacay.





My Shower Experience was a cross between a porn movie and the shower scene from Psycho. There was some part of my nekked body pressed up against that glass the entire time.
Evidently, it was not that sexy because when I stumbled out, I ran into my husband coming at me with a steak knife.





I got to shake my Groove Thang on 70’s night, throw down a little Benatar on 80’s night and embarrass the young people by singing Ke$sha. I’m a multi-generational exhibitionist.

I did not fall off my sky-high hooker heels or have any wardrobe malfunctions. Oh, there was bouncin’. And I had to stop and pull my Spanx outta my crack a couple of times.




But enough about me, (and you have no idea how it pains me to say that…) the absolute highlight of the trip was watching my Studmuffin, and his equally studly brother, AKA The Cojones Brothers, prance around on the karaoke stage.

Having been raised good little Lutherans; the boys can carry a tune. That being said, having been raised good little Lutherans, they’d just as soon raise a little hell.

While singing The Kink’s Lola, a poor, unsuspecting, military-looking gentleman was recruited from the audience and wooed onstage. We’re talkin’ “wooed” with a capital “Woo!”  I’m not sure he knew what that song was about at first, but he certainly did by the end! Woo!
Shooting Star seems like a nice little ditty on the surface. But until you’ve seen one dude stomping and strutting the lead like Billy Idol meets Bruce Springsteen and Mr. Harmony grinning ear-to-ear, bouncing between an arm-waving Tigger dance and a few well-placed pelvic-thrusts, you ain’t seen it done right.


The crowd was enthralled or appalled, depending on how you interpreted the bug-eyed, slack-jawed stares (shock or awe?). I do know that at one point, Tigger threw down a few Stephen Tyler screams that had the Red Hat Club squealing like it was Beatlemania.

For the rest of the cruise - on the elevator, at dinner, at the pool – all of a sudden we’d hear, “Hey! It’s the Cojones Brothers!”

Billy/Bruce accidentally walked in on the You’re Never Too Old To Line Dance class. Backing away slowly….

A screech: “Look! It’s one of them Karaoke Boys!!”

I’m not sure exactly what happened but he came outta that room a little mussed, a little flattered, a little scared. There were nine Maw Maws and the dude from Lola. I’m not sure who got a hold of him. Woo!

They loved it! Oh, they hemmed & hawed and look all “Aw Shucks-y” about it, but let me tell you, forty-something year old married men will take whatever adulation they can get. Or get away with.

Unfortunately, I have been threatened with a fate worse than death if I posted any pictures or video that I may or may not have of The Cojones Brothers. Actually, that’s not true. One Cojone begged me to post them and the other Cojone did the threatening. Which adds up to: I just don’t have the balls.

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.