Why my refusal to fish is non-negotiable

My dad is great. He is one of those guys that can do a little bit of everything, and would give you the shirt off his back if you needed it... but you probably wouldn't want it because it's likely to be plaid flannel and have a slight odor of dead fish clinging to it.  My dad lives to fish.  I'm not exaggerating. He retired early so that he could spend more time out on the lake. It's his true love. The rest of us are fighting for a distant second place in his affections.

I do not fish. Period. No discussion will be held on the subject. I will go out on the boat in the summer and read a book, or enjoy the sunny day, but I will not fish. I was scarred and remain traumatized by early morning father daughter bonding over a bucket of leeches, to ever be able to enjoy fishing as an adult. And that's summer fishing, when the  temperature was above freezing. See, my dad is also a devotee of ice fishing, and that just brings memories to mind that I would much rather stay suppressed!

For those of you not from the frozen tundra, ice fishing involves drilling a hole in the ice, dropping a fishing line down the hole and staring at it all day in the hopes that a fish will swim by. Ice fishing held little appeal to me as an energetic eight year old, and less as a cold-avowing eighteen year old. Dad had other ideas.

I was home for Christmas break during my first year of college and Dad asked if I wanted to go ice fishing with him. I suggested that we just crawl into the freezer as it was warmer, more comfortable, and there were more fish. Dad insisted that it would be great fun, and Santa Claus had just brought him a new, portable ice fishing shack for Christmas, so I would be warm and toasty and could fish in luxury. Despite Hollywood's rendition of ice shacks as cozy cabins complete with fireplaces, comfy furniture and electricity, the ice shacks in this neck of the woods bear a striking resemblence to tin outhouses over a couple holes in the ice. The only difference is that in an outhouse, the holes have a purpose. If ice shacks are a temporary community built on the ice, than portable ice shacks are the trailer houses of the neighborhood. Picture a two man tent frame covered in a blue tarp with a plywood floor. That's fishing in luxury at our house.

The next morning Dad pulled me kicking and screaming from my bed at O'dark-thirty, so we could get on the lake before the sun came up, and pointedly ignored my questioning about how the fish knew if it was 6 am or 11 am under the ice. The temperature was hovering somewhere around 30 below with a wind chill of about 60 below zero, with wind gusting to 50 mph. A balmy northern Wisconsin morning. I spilled hot chocolate out of the thermos, and it froze before it hit the ground.

We got the shack all set up in Dad's "secret spot", and aapparently it was so secret that even the fish didn't know about it! Dad was in his glory, fishing out of several holes in the shack and several outside, where he had set up tip-ups. I was wondering how I was going to get to my classes and study after my arms and legs had been amputated due to hypothermia, when Dad yelled, "TIP-UP!" And ran out the door to check the fishing pole.

I stood up  to re latch the door before the wind ripped it off, when I felt the Earth move. No, I wasn't having a religious experience, nor was the 3 foot thick ice sheet that we were on cracking. The wind  whipping down the frozen lake had picked up, and had grabbed the portable ice shack in it's artic grasp. I was holding on to the metal frames, looking out the door, as without the additional 200lbs of Dad weight, the shack turned from a plastic tarp outhouse to a sailboat.

As the shack started picking up speed, I yelled for Dad, who was on his knees over one of the holes in the ice. Dad jumped up and started running after us. The lake we were on was several miles long and the shack was able to get moving at rather alarming rate of speed. I was sure I had misunderstood Dad when I thought I heard him yelling at me to "...jump!  ...jump!" Then I looked ahead of me. the shoreline was coming fast, and since the shack hadn't been equipped with brakes, a crash into the rocky, tree-lined shore was eminent.

I jumped. It hurt. I broke my wrist.

As I was rolling on the ice, sobbing in pain, crying "My wrist! My wrist!"  Dad came running on to the scene, and ran right past me, tears in is eye, crying, "My shack! My shack!"

Smelly friends are the best

I am so lucky to have the best friends in the entire world!

Some people will think I am a nut when I tell them that I've never met most of the people who are my closest friends.

They might be right. Or not. I don't really care, to be honest. I think that's the best part of getting older; not giving a flying fuck if someone thinks I'm an oddball.

What I do know for certain is that I've somehow become a part of this group of amazing woman who I love like family. I am so humbled to be able to call them my friends, and I know that my life is immeasurably better because of them.

Thank you my friends for all your love and support and sharing my tears a well a my giggles.

Why I'm giving the gift of garbage

The fireman and I are great in a crisis. Seriously, I'm not bragging here. Professionally we've both been in disaster mitigation, response and recovery for over 20 years. Our resumes include things like New Orleans after Katrina and DC and New York after 9/11. When the shit hits the fan you want to see us, because we are really good at what we do.

Yep, fires, floods, national disasters, no problem! The problem seems to arise when we attempt ordinary everyday chores that most people never think twice about. Like taking out the garbage.

I'm involved in a secret Santa type swap right now that involves sending 12 individually wrapped gifts. Late last night I finished wrapping my gifts to send, but decided to leave the picking up of the mess until this morning.

Fast forward to 6 this morning, I'm in the shower and the fireman is asking if this is garbage pick up day, and did I put it out last night? With the holiday I'd forgotten, so I begged him to put it out quick, and while he was at it, could he grab my wrapping paper mess and put it out too.

Since he's generally the helpful sort he took care of it, and since I do appreciate him, I made him breakfast. As I was standing at the sink, looking down the driveway, we were chatting about how much snow we'd gotten, and how nice it was that the plows were out already.

Just about that time I was witness to the township plow hooking one of our bags of trash and spreading it hither and yon down the road. As I was putting my boots on to go clean it up, I mentioned that at least it was pretty wrapping paper garbage and not the cleanings from Hannah the cat's liter box that I'd get to clean up.

Imagine my surprise when I started picking up the trash, and it wasn't just leftover wrapping paper and mangled ribbon, but also my 12 wrapped gifts.

Normally I have nothing good to say about the local snow plow drivers. I'm convinced they have a points system and earn prizes for things they destroy and mangle during their routes. Today I am happy that the plow driver decided to go for the 3 pointer that our trash bags must have represented. He saved me a not inconsiderable sum of money and saved the fireman a shopping trip on black Friday!

Right as I finished picking everything up, the garbage truck rolled up. He threw the bags in the truck and tried to take the one from my hand. I had to to say no, it wasn't trash, just something I was giving to a friend.

When I got back the fireman was laughing because now the garbage man would be telling everyone that I do my holiday shopping in the neighborhood garbage cans.

How do you gift wrap a lap dance?

Last weekend we celebrated my Dad's 75th birthday. It was a lovely day, filled with lots of family, friends, good food and presents. I gave him a a gift card to his favorite butcher shop. He was disappointed.  It's not that he didn't appreciate it, and won't be thrilled when he picks things out with it, it's just that a couple of years ago, I gave him THE BEST GIFT EVER, and since then, nothing has lived up to it. To be honest, it wasn't even the gift, and I doubt either of us could remember what the actual gift turned out to be that year. It was the story of my trying to by him a gift that he loved so much.  Let me back up a bit.

Dad is a practical sort of guy,  doesn't like gadgets or anything, he hunts and fishes, but has everything he could ever need (with the possible exception of a daughter who would willingly join him in these endeavors). One thing that he does enjoy is to going out to eat. There is a supper club that I knew he liked, right on the highway I would be driving on, so I decided to stop and pick him up a gift certificate.

I pulled into the parking lot, mid afternoon, and immediately noticed that they had done quite a bit or remodeling since I had been there about a year and a half earlier. Unfortunately there wasn't anyone around, but I got out and tried the door anyway. Crap. Not open.

As I was walking back to my truck another car pulled up and out stepped one of the largest men I have ever seen.  He asked if there was something that he could help me with, and I told him that I was hoping to buy a gift certificate for my Dad's birthday, explaining that he really enjoyed coming here. The man gave me a very strange look and said he was quite sorry, but they didn't have gift certificates, and did I realize that new owners had taken over?

Obviously I hadn't but said, I really liked the remodeling they had done, and asked if they still had the great chicken. I thought the man was going to choke to death he had such a coughing fit! Finally he gasped out that they started serving a different kind of breasts and thighs. How weird I thought as I got back into my truck to leave.

As I was pulling out of their drive, onto the highway, I happened to notice the new sign to go along with the recent remodeling.  "Chubby's North Gentlemen's Club." Yes, I tried to by my Dad a gift certificate to the new strip club!

At least I'm not bald

I know I'm not 20 anymore. I know that physical changes start taking place and for the most part the process of aging doesn't bother me too much. I get along much better with myself at 40 something, than I did at 20 something, even though I'll cheerfully admit that I sure wish I could fit all this 41 year old awesome in those 21 year old's jeans!

For the last ten or so years I've noticed that every once in awhile I will get a stay hair that pops out from my chin. Since I'd rather not be considered a qualified applicant for the bearded lady job when the circus comes to town, I am obsessive about plucking them out.

Yesterday I was standing in the bathroom trying to pluck one out when the fireman walked in and wanted to know why I had my nose less than half an inch from the mirror.

Me:  I can feel a little chin hair, but I can't see it to yank it out.

Fireman: You probably can't see it because it's grey. Maybe you should try dying your beard hair the next time you get your roots done.

This from the man who thought it was a perfectly rational decision to start shaving his head so that people wouldn't notice his receding hair line!

There is no form of torture that could ever get me to admit to him that when I finally did find it, and yank it out, he was right!

Fireman is way too exited about this blog

Fireman:  So you really are writing a blog?

Me:  Yep, but it's actually more challenging than I thought it was going to be.

Fireman:  How so?

Me:  Well the first day was easy because I told everyone that you were a twat. Day two was much harder because I found out people actually read what I wrote, so now I feel the need to be entertaining. And it's not like I can count on getting stuck in something everyday just so I have something to write about!

Fireman: What about the time you got your head stuck in the dishwasher?

Me:  I'll make sure to mention how you wouldn't help me out of the dishwasher until you took pictures of me!

Fireman:  That is one of my favorite pictures of you...
What about the time you were driving your boss around, shut your hair in the truck door, and almost broke your neck when you tried to turn right?

Me:  I really don't need your help.

Fireman:  Didn't you crash into a ditch and total the front end of a state vehicle?

Me:  Tomorrow I'm going back to telling everybody what a twat you are.

Carpe the Freezer! or Why my UPS man needs a raise

Every once in a while I get into a crazy clean freak mode. Most recently it manifested itself in a need to clean out the chest freezer. Actually it wasn't as much a desire to clean the freezer as it was the realization that Christmas baking time is fast approaching and storage space for the 160 dozen or so assorted sweets was needed.


After relocating everything- and yes Mr. Fireman, I am quite sure I didn't see any chicken livers in there, and that's my story and I'm sticking to it! Anyway, after relocating things and tossing things no longer fit for human consumption, I decided that I should wash the inside, because how often do you ever get the freezer completely empty? If you live at my house, and have a family full of hunters, fishers and gatherers, that answer is pretty much never, so you seize the moment when you can. Carpe the freezer, so to speak.


If you've met me in real life you realize that I have the same body type as an Umpah Loompah. If you haven't met me in real life then you should assume I am a graceful, willowy blonde, a perfect size 7 with flawless skin and the ability to wear high heels without fear of personal injury. In reality I am 5'10", but have short, stumpy little legs, that are often to blame in my getting strange looks when I ask to try something on from the petite section.


I got the top and sides of the freezer all nice and clean, and even got the bottom mostly wiped out, but there was one of those bright orange SALE! stickers firmly stuck in the back left corner. In my fervor to CLEAN ALL THE THINGS, this was unacceptable. So I reached in, just as far as I could, standing on my tippiest of tippy toes, thinking that if I could just get my fingernail under the corner... And that's when my giant, not anywhere near a perfect size 7 butt, lost the battle with gravity and tipped me into the freezer.


The good news is that I got the @)#^$! sticker removed. The bad news was that I was now balanced, half in and half out of the freezer, feet a couple inches from touching the floor, and while I could touch the freezer floor with my fingers, my arms weren't long enough to give me any kind of a push against the forces of gravity bearing down on my gigantic butt.


Just as I was thinking I was going to have to slide the rest of me into the freezer to be able to climb back out I hear big stompy boots on the back deck. Yay! It was my fireman, home early, just when I needed rescuing! Since the fireman is known to wander in the yard and play in the garage for a bit before making his way into the house, I started yelling for him. Imagine my surprise when it wasn't fireman's head that popped through the doorway, but rather a quite startled looking UPS man.


You know, it's really hard to ask a complete stranger to grab your ass and help you escape from the clutches of gravity and frozen food storage, but I did it anyway. I'm thinking about writing a letter to UPS and thanking them for having an employee who was not only kind enough to grab my ass, but to do so without falling on the floor laughing at me. I also think I need to install an outdoor drop box for any future deliveries, because I can't imagine that he wants to come anywhere near my house again.

What did you do today?

Fireman:  What did you do today?

Me:  I added all my regularly used cuss words to the dictionary of my fancy new phone.
It took me a long time.

Fireman:  You what???
Why???

Me:  I tried to send you a text message and I wanted to call you a twat. The phone kept insisting I meant "treat" not "twat".
Obviously fancy new phone hasn't gotten to know you yet.

Fireman:  You smoke crack when I'm not here don't you?