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.

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….