Spirt Airlines Has No Soul

!!!!aa

Knowing that Spirit Airlines is a discount adventure disguised as a “Don’t Worry, Be Happy” experience, I thought, “Why not?” and booked my first ticket with them to New Orleans.  The online booking was an adventure all by itself.  The fare was $2.00 but by the time you paid for a seat, a bag of peanuts, and toilet paper for every flush, it came up to $196, round trip.

It was all fun and games until the return flight home.  Somehow, within the booking process, I only paid to check my bag to NOLA and forgot to pay the additional $24 for its ride home. Of course, being me, I didn’t realize it until the ticket agent said, “Oh, so you have a bag to check?

The ticket agent informed me with a southern sweet tea voice which I ended up wanting her to choke on, “If you had booked the bag 24 hours in advance it would have only been $24.”  My ankles were sore and swollen from all the graveyard tours and that’s when my head spun around like Linda Blair’s as I screamed,  “W H A T !” (and it wasn’t a question) You are kidding me!”

That’s right, witch, rub some salt in it.

I could feel the heat in my body rise up from the Gates of Hell so I said again, just to be sure, “You mean it is $50 one way for one bag right now?”  Yep.  I just glared at her, dumbfounded.  I felt naked, alone, ravaged and ripped off.

There are times in life when one loses control and makes a complete jackass of themselves and lives to regret it.  This wasn’t one of them.

I said it loud and proud, “This is EXTORTION–Can’t you see THAT THIS IS EXTORTION…it’s not American.  I’m a first time customer and I’m willing to pay the $24, but asking $50 now is EXTORTION”  Then I turned around and told everyone within 50 feet of the counter that this airline was a joke.  This airline sucks.  This airline can suck my lady balls.

Eventually, my husband showed up with the bail money.

 

 

Old Man Winter Needs to DIE

When that cold-hot-cold-snow-melt-ice-hot-cold-windy-slushy in between season called March in Michigan gives me a headache, I chug a cup of hot cocoa with marshmallows to quiet the fever.  With a blankie wrapped tightly, I keep warm, waiting for camping season.  Last year the fever hit when the sun came out and melted all the snow, exposing some green for the first time in forever. To top that off, I saw a skunk in the road and had to wonder if it meant six more weeks of anything?

Then I spied my first robin bursting with blue eggs, as she collected sticks and little pieces of this and that to pad her nest.   I’m deliriously dreaming about roasting hot dogs over a snapping flame –with a stick customized by my trusty “Swiss”.  My hibernating mind is starting to wake up with the crocuses and it drifts above my consciousness, letting in the smell of cowboy coffee percolating in my Grandpa’s dented pot as I listen to bacon sizzling in a heavy cast iron skillet.

There is nothing like the sound of kerosene gas flowing up into a Coleman lantern at night which, upon ignition, takes on a life light of its own–bathing us in soft yellow hues.  Every kind of insect is attracted to it’s nectar core. I can see my Dad striking the match and posting it on a nail, way up and off to the side.

Soon it will be time to go mushroom hunting and time to put all the lawn chairs in a circle around the fire and time to sing Three Dog Night’s Joy to the World and time to collect mint leaves to brew Grandma’s mint tea and time to gather drift wood in the bow of a row boat and and time to pick daisies and black-eyed susans and time to wear flip-flops and time to chop wood and time to catch a fish and time to discover new trails on hikes and time to see eagles soar and time to see deer in the woods and time to catch a lightning bug and time to skinny dip and time to tell ghost stories and time to drop blueberries into a tin cup and time to appreciate a full moon and time to dig up a can of worms and time to take a picture of a sunrise and time to grill and time to just be happy and time to open the graham crackers and time to fire up the ‘ol 1964 Johnson 20 and time to strip down into your skivvies and crawl into the sack….exhausted from not having enough time when it comes to camping!

When All The Stars Align…A Moment Like This Is Captured On Film

dock-dog

We pulled up anchor and headed back to camp with a boatload of fish. The August sun was hot and our bellies were empty.  There was only one cola left in the cooler and Mother Nature was calling.  On approach, we slowed down to witness a four legged athlete named Dock–and HE CAN FLY.

We cut the engine and drifted, in awe, when we saw how high and tight his moves were.  Dock, a German Shorthaired Pointer pup, had “Zee German Engineering” running on all four cylinders and he was stroked and bored!  His owner cartwheeled the dummy time and time again…and then the magic happened. It really was something to behold.

CLICK this orange link and WATCH this Amazing Athete

 

Big Bull Moose Sighting!

Big Bull Moose  

Click on above video link!

Since the 70′s, when every day tee shirts caught on, I’ve resented each Yooper tee with moose on it.  Hey, shirts with black bears and beaver shots are ok.  Celebrating slogans like “Say ya to da UP, eh?” or those making fun of Beer Camp, Pasties, and Trolls living south of da bridge are good.  I’ve just got a 50 year grudge with Moose shirts.  Until I saw an incredible bull moose tear it up on U.S. 2 at the MI95 junction in Iron Mountain. What happened next blew me away.

This mature bull shredded everything in his path as he filled his tank on berries and brush leaves.  He seemed nice enough and sort of tame.  Traffic came to a standstill and impatient folks bailed out to see what the commotion was.  After they figured it out, each raced back to their trusty rusties to retrieve cell phones and cameras.  Folks began gathering quick and there were more oooohs and aaaahs than fireworks on the 4th of July.   Sparks shot off the nearby cell phone tower as callers lit it up.   Eventually, every bar stool within a five mile radius was empty. We had us a spectacle–a true Yooper miracle…until a guy wearing steel toed Carhartt boots said, “Hey, hold my beer!”

 

Get off at Exit 69 on Big Beaver Road–How Hard Can it Be?

“Big BEEverr” Pronouncing this major artery through the city of Troy, Michigan almost always draws snickers from out-of-towners.   It is embarrassing to give them directions in this town to anywhere, even a place as simple as a shopping mall.  I blame dead folks: the ones who long ago snickered at leaving us this legacy.   They know what they did.

These 1950′s engineers were in charge of road planning.  They selected all the junctions as I-75 was designed. Big Beaver Road, which was originally named in the 1800′s after a nearby beaver pond, was assigned (cover your eyes, kids) EXIT 69.  If these clowns had added one more intersection before or after Big Beaver Road, a lot of teens and t’weens would have had nothing to giggle about.   Worse, the old Playboy Club, was there, further perpetuating the urban legend factor. Take heart, Michiganders, we are in good company:

 

 

 

 

 

Kentuckians don’t want you to know is that there are two villages in Northern KY: Beaver Lick and Big Bone Lick.)

For those of you needing some extra R&R, you could pull over here: 

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