We saw the writing on the wall as we felt this magical fantasy.

As you know, Giuseppe Zangara, because of the fire in my belly, I did NOT go to BlogHer. I was actually 42% fine with my decision until early last week when people began writing their “I’m packing for BlogHer!” posts. Then my 42% swooped down into the teens. I immediately called Jeff and told him that we need to go “camping.” (I added those quotation marks for you, Coffee Lady! My definition of camping really IS very loose. No television, people in the dining hall are wearing swimsuits, and I didn’t even pack eyeliner? Camping!)  When I saw on the news that Trout Lodge’s adjoining camp had to evacuate because of an E. Coli scare, reducing the entire camp’s population by one half? Well, I turned that scar into a star! (I don’t handle crowds very well. You’re a pal, E. Coli!)

We arrived at Trout Lodge on Sunday afternoon, and immediately hit the ground running. When you check in, you’re handed a fairly hefty list of options and times so you can fill your schedule with as many (or as few) activities as you want. I’m still a bit amazed at all of the things we crammed into a 48 hour period of time.

One of the 3,584 photos I took of the lake. Why do I do that?

On Monday morning, we went on a fishing trip with Robinson from Colombia. As he pulled the boat away from the dock, he talked a big talk about how we were going to catch a huge fish. We fished for an hour and caught nothing. As Robinson prepared to lift the anchor and take us back to the boat house, Meredith caught a fish. Robinson actually squealed and confessed that he has been taking families out on fishing trips all summer, and NO ONE has caught a fish. Meredith was a hero. (And, seriously. Wouldn’t it suck a bit to fly out to Missouri from South America and spend three months taking families on unsuccessful fishing trips? It almost smells like some sort of punishment! Anyway, because of Meredith, I’m almost positive that Robinson now whistles The Star Spangled Banner as he pulls the fishing boat away from the dock!)

MC caught her first fish!

On Monday afternoon, the girls rode ponies. This goes down as their favorite part of the trip. (It was super hot outside, yet all of the ranch employees were wearing Wranglers, long sleeved shirts, and hats. I was actually walking around in a bikini fashioned out of frozen bottles of Gatorade, and these guys were dressed for November. God Bless the Cowboys.)

Learning the Ropes

On Monday night, the girls tie-dyed shirts. And everything about that was great, except for the family of seven that shared the activity with us. They spent nearly half of the evening speaking in fake British accents, and the other half was spent taking cheap shots at the presidential candidate for whom they clearly did not vote. Later in the evening, I noticed that instead of leaving their shirts wrapped in plastic (as we were instructed) to allow the dye to set, the Annoyingtons hung their unwrapped shirts out on their balcony. Confession: When I saw this, I secretly hoped their shirts would lose more than a bit of vibrance. I know. I’m the devil.

Meredith created her Dead tour uniform.

On Tuesday morning, we fed gigantic fish. And many of the fish had huge goiteresque humps growing out of their sides. We determined that the goiter fish were the pregnant ladies, and we soon found ourselves aiming the food at them. Can you help me out, fish people? When carp get pregnant do they sort of look like they’ve swallowed a human skull? (Actually, I sort of like the skull theory. It’s possible that I don’t really want to know the truth.)

Feeding the Goiter Fish

We also went on a hay ride, the girls swam (several times) in the lake, we walked (and walked some more), we saw a pretty crappy puppet show, we ate ice cream (and biscuits and gravy!), we made body spray (?!?!), and best of all, the girls had crazy giddy fun and no one suffered symptoms of E. Coli. (The entire photo set may be viewed here.)

Lord help the mister, etc.

Okay. This is the part of the post that no one reads because it falls below the final photograph. This part is just between you and me. At night, after Jeff and the girls were asleep, I would sneak out to the boat house and dance with Robinson. Penny, his normal dance partner, was confined to bed due to a botched abortion, and Robinson desperately needed someone to dance with him at the nearby resort’s annual show. When Robinson was accused of stealing a wallet and I covered for him by telling the Trout Lodge authorities about our clandestine (and somewhat dirty) dance sessions, Jeff and the other Trout Lodge campers let their tempers flare. Luckily, everything worked out in the end, and we all ended up having the time of our lives. (Yes, I swear. It’s the truth.) ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Too bad we’re going to miss Upper GI Wednesday!

Yesterday afternoon we were able to attend a glow-in-the-dark juggling/magic show at the local library. Because we know how these things tend to fill up quickly (We don’t really know that, but we pretend to be knowing. We’re so smug.), we arrived thirty minutes before show time.

As the girls and I waited for the show to begin, Jeff announced that he was going to use the restroom. Ten minutes later he returned.

Jeff: Girls, I think the show is about to begin! I just saw the juggler in the bathroom, and he was washing his balls!!!

Me: Wow. There you go!

Jeff: Yep. So, I guess THAT happened!

Meredith: Why was he washing his balls? Were they sticky?!

Jeff: Well, I’m not sure. I didn’t want to crowd him.

And, Scene.

In health-related news (look away, Eddie), all of my test results are showing that my gall bladder really is a respectable fellow. SO, I’m now on a different medication, and will be having an abdominal CAT scan as well as an upper endoscopy sometime in the next month. Apparently, this is colonoscopy/endoscopy season (who knew?!)—making it very difficult to score  an appointment. (Just in case you’re interested, it’s also groundhog, squirrel, and coyote season! Grab your forks!)

And, finally—because we can’t go to Luxembourg, we’ve decided to go camping at Trout Lodge. We’re leaving tomorrow, and according to the brochure we will be there for Safari Sunday, Blast from the Past Monday, and Wrangler Tuesday. Ponies will be ridden. S’mores will be consumed. AND, during naptime? I’ll be dinking around with a Swirl Shawl, or perhaps a Swirl Scarf. Which size do YOU prefer?

Time to juggle. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Birthday party, cheesecake, jelly bean, boom!

On Sunday afternoon, I found myself at Starbucks ordering one of their shaken iced tea lemonades. The barista, who looks a bit like Dave Grohl, is my absolute favorite local Starbucks barista. (Wait. It’s not like I know all of them well enough to proclaim a favorite. I don’t. In fact, I rarely do the Starbucks thing anymore. I used to go every stinking day. Now? Maybe once a week. Why am I defending myself to you?) Anyway, this is the barista who yelled “Muffin Down!” when I was there a few months back. And I would link to that story, but now I can’t find it. Wait. Are you still here? Whitey Herzog!

Anyway, as I waited for my lemonade, I stood within earshot of a sixteenish-year-old girl who was trying her absolute hardest to flirt with the Dave Grohl barista. For the sake of convenience, let’s refer to the girl as Tawdry.

Tawdry: So, I was at the mall the other day and I saw a Starbucks shirt but the mermaid wasn’t in the middle. It was a photograph of Jesus and it said something like “Jesus loves you a latte.” And I was like, “How stupid is that?!” If you love Jesus, just get your ass to church and stop wearing shirts that advertise it. I don’t want to know that you’re a Jesus lover.

Barista: I’ve heard about that shirt, but I haven’t seen it.

Tawdry: Yeah, and I couldn’t even look at the other shirts because some lady was there with her screaming kid and she wouldn’t do anything about the screaming. And I was like, “Why don’t you beat his ass and make him sit on a bench until he shuts up?!” That’s what my mom used to do, and I turned out fine.

With that, Dave Grohl handed her drink over and waited until she had walked out before looking at me and declaring, “Ahhh. Fine is such a subjective term, isn’t it?”

Me: It’s a really large and confusing blanket. Also, did you hear that the shirt had a photograph of Jesus on it?

Barista: I didn’t realize they had cameras back then! I have a lot to learn. Wait. Did you want me to sweeten the lemonade?

Me: Nope. It’s fine. Slightly bitter. Just the way I like it. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Skirting Around the Biliary Dyskinesia

A few weeks ago I suddenly got the urge to fill my closet with skirts. In the past, when similar urges have struck or stricken depending on your preference, I simply made a trip to J.Jill where I tried on a handful of skirts, did the math while standing half-clothed in the dressing room, and walked out empty handed (yet fully clothed) with the skippy feeling you get when you have saved $439.85 by NOT filling your closet with skirts.

(I know. I don’t HAVE to go to J.Jill. BUT, if I were to choose a store based on the style I think I want to represent, stinking expensive J.Jill it would be.) ((Um, by the way, I would love to be able to carry this off. I believe I would drink more green tea if I dressed like that! And I know I would smile more! And I would be right on track with Infinite Summer!))

Anyway, instead of making a trip to the mall this time around, I made a trip to the fabric store.

Last weekend I put this together:

Skirt!

I wore it out on Monday, and it didn’t fall apart when I sat down, so I headed back to the fabric store a few days back with my biggest critics—Harper and Meredith.

Me: I would like you to help me choose some fabric for a skirt that would look good with either a white or a black t-shirt.

Meredith (after browsing less than three minutes): This is the one. You can wear it when you go to a restaurant.

And I know that it’s probably best suited for a pot holder or a tablecloth, but Meredith actually put a bit of thought into it, and Harper agreed with her. So now I have one of these:

P1000905

AND, because my brain is completely wrapped up in skirts, I went out this morning and bought the fabric to make another. You see, I’m going to a party tonight (who? me? what?), and I believe the party calls for something with neon dots, as most parties do.

(Please stay tuned, for my next update will contain actual photographs (or cartoony drawings, depending on your preference) of my gall bladder—specifically, my sphincter of Oddi, which has absolutely nothing to do with the large-tongued dog in the Garfield cartoon strip.)

Skirts!

Edited to Add: Finished with the Friday Skirt! (See what I mean about the skirts?! It’s all skirts all the time over here! Simplicity 2906!)

P1000910

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Muffin Failures, Unicorn Videos, and Rear View Organs

Don’t you hate it when someone starts singing songs about giving away muffins and then they disappear for a week? Let the Truth Be Told: I never heard back from my muffin man. I’m going to contact one other person (Governor Muffin) to see what I can do, but right now it’s not looking good.

Speaking of not looking good, here’s the Testicle Unicorn, as seen on Pudding Laundry Day, which is pretty much every day, and I’m not sure why I need you to know that. Perhaps I’m just a bit embarrassed by all of the laundry baskets sitting around. Also, pay special attention to how the unicorn’s hair is gently blowing in the breeze. Please know that there was no breeze. The thing truly is magical. (Mythical? Testicle?):

Oh! And once again speaking of Not Looking Good, get this. The next time you see me you’re going to think “Wow. Something is different about her, but I can’t figure out what it is.” Here. Let me help you. It’s my gall bladder, or lack thereof! I’ll spare you the uglies. Just know that I have a surgical consult on Thursday! And the only thing that really gets my goat is the fact that this whole gall bladder extraction thing might affect my road trip to Chicago in a few weeks.

Turning Lemons into Lemonade, as I Often Do: Since I might not be able to deliver the muffins, perhaps I’ll knit up a sporty little gall bladder and one of you (very lucky) people will be able to place a spanking new handknit organ on your dashboard before the end of the summer (or winter, or whatever season you’re dealing with right now, turn, turn, turn). I’ll be in touch. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>