Sugar Momma

Last time he went out, he slept in a cave. So a simple fire should be a piece of cake.

Ever since his wallet filled with identification, cash, and pictures of his wife burned to the ground in an outpost cabin in Canada along with his U.S. Passport, I’ve been making calls to the United States Consulate in Vancouver to figure out how to get my husband back into the States.  I’m kind of thinking about leaving him there, but someone has to take out the garbage on Wednesdays.

What I learned from the agents is that I am married to a man who is technically destitute.  They have a label for people overseas who have lost their passports and money and now John has been labeled destitute.  He doesn’t know this yet.  When he gets out of the bush and heads to the U.S. Consulate in the rental car that (I hope!) is full of gas, he will learn the ugly truth.  He will have to stand in the “destitute” line:  I can’t get enough of that word –and he will figure out real quick who his Sugar Momma is.

Yes, I’m laughing.   In hindsight, he probably should have paid more attention to the American Express slogan, “Never leave home without it.”  Hopefully the outfitter he is with is still feeding him and will probably fill up his car with gas and give him lunch money and tell him not to talk to strangers.   Sugar Momma is working the deal on this end, and somehow, this big swamp buck hunter will get home in one piece.  No fear.

All That Glitters Isn’t Gold

When my husband goes on a hunting trip, we have a deal.  Don’t call home from the bush unless something is wrong.  I’m confident that when my man is dressed in camouflage with pockets full of bullets and his tootsies are flanked in Sorel Conquest boots, that something is going to die.

He left Michigan two days ago.  Today my phone rang, his ID popped up, and my heart sunk.  I answered the phone with one question, “What’s wrong?”

He was out on the mountain range in British Columbia, about five hour’s drive north of Vancouver, hunting a lynx.  His guide noticed blue smoke on the horizon and left John to “go check it out.”  It was a warmer day and he was dressed lightly:  no need for the heavy parkas, the Kelty backpacking frame, or things like money and identification.  They were off grid, catching cats.  In the meantime, John spotted several sheep, a bobcat, and some wild horses.

When the guide returned, his face was ashen.  The entire outpost cabin had burned to the ground.  All they had left were the clothes on their backs and nightfall was coming.  Both men made it back somehow to the outfitter’s homestead in Lilliooet, where they lit a fire and started making calls.

My husband is very resourceful.

He will find clean underwear.

He will find or make all necessary outerwear.   He will come home with a lynx.

As long as he has a firearm and no broken bones, I’m good with it.

Tomorrow I will start calling his not-so-favorite entity: the federal government, to find out how to get him back into the country without a passport, any money, a driver’s license, or a credit card.    I sure hope they don’t look at his Facebook posts or this could be a very long process!

#totallyscrewed

I Want to Be My Dog

Every day I love on my dog, Remi, and whisper sweet bits and encouragement into her ear.  Can you kiss a dog too much?  Then there are days when I cup her flabby cheeks in my hands, look into her eyes with pure adoration, and get rewarded with an audible “toot” and a nasal assault that makes me jump off the couch and run.

We begin and end each day the same way:  cuddled up under a mountain of blankies, stuck together like peas and carrots.  Now I’m not saying I’ve never sought revenge with the ‘ol Dutch Oven trick, but overall, we get by just fine.  Most mornings start out obnoxiously.  I play dead, hoping she will go back to sleep, and she escalates bad behaviors that begin with staring at me while I’m fake sleeping, pawing at my boobs (which generally gets me to at least move in an act of self-preservation) and ends up with her trying to sit on my head.  She knows no shame.

We go out to check and feed the chickens and goats.  This is when she takes a hot, steaming dump in the side yard, close enough to the pathway, that I get to smell it.  Then we go “running”.  She runs, I drive.  Once she has ticked a couple of miles, I can escape to run errands, drive tractors, or go to work.  If she even thinks I am leaving her behind, she cowers down at my back tires, pulling a Helen Keller, and doesn’t respond to any commands.  I have to go out there, tell her to knock it off, and give her a quick boot in the butt.

Here’s the problem:  the whole time I am away, I want to be back home with the dumb-dumb.  I want to feel her soft head against my cheek, hold her in my lap, or breathe in her incredible great smell.  Does anyone else love to smell their dog’s ears and paws?

Slo-Mo Run

Finally, I roll up the driveway and, there in the window glass,  I spy a white, wiggling body and an intent brown head staring at me with huge chocolate eyes.   She is saved. Each time.   That’s how dogs think–that you are leaving them forever.  There is a flurry of hugs and kisses and greetings in my Mommy sing-song voice followed up with a stop at the treat jar and fifty shades of fetch.

Reunited, we settle into evening routines.  Remi watches me cook, hoping I drop something, and I always do.  If it is summer time, we go out to the lake after dinner and she goes swimming. Mmmm…wet dog smell.   In the winter, we go for another run with the car.  In between, we go camping as much as we can and hike the north woods together.  She has a little plaid jacket to wear around the campfires on cool nights and a life jacket to wear when we are out fishing on the boat.  Then there are days when we paddle our canoe.  She is my Lieutenant Dan. 

Of course, Daddy is her hero.  She sees him 1/10th of her day, but as soon as he walks in the door, I’m reduced to douche bag status.  She hopes he is going bird hunting.  Every day.  Every time.  watch?v=3TB5p6D-V9s&feature=youtu.be

It dawned on me that Remi has the perfect life.  She even has a big chest and a little behind that would make Pamela Anderson jealous.  There are no little kids in our home to pull what is left of her tail, there’s an endless supply of love, holes to dig, fields to run, and lots of vacations.  In my next life, I want to be my dog!

Going Up?

Elevated English

Every now and again, using my honed and boned up arsenal of persuasion words, I ratchet it up notch just to get a little tingle up my leg.  It is a high to successfully use my brain in conjunction with my mouth.  I should do it more often.

Throw in a few practiced looks and the occasional wink, and watch how the receiver then ups his word game.  Keep it going and the unprepared will eventually falter (wherein all snickers must be retained).

Extrapolate, Excoriate, Exacerbate and Masticate…

Innocuous, Synergy, Visceral

Fluid or Fluctuate, not Change.  Change is a nickle word.

Heinous, Innocuous

Let’s be Pithy

Supercilious

ubiquitous

The eff word is abused, misused, over used and bastardized.  Any back door Santa, adept with a word arsenal,  knows dalliance or osculation will do.  You get more with a little sugar.  Enjoy the ride.

Killer Cucumber Dill Dip

Making this at Easter time brings a burst of spring zest to cabbage tongues; tongues soured by a long winter’s fill of crock pot soups and stews.  Try it and you’ll be planting spring bulbs the next day.

Ingredients:

1 – 8 oz. light cream cheese, softened

1 cup Hellmann’s light mayo

2 medium cukes–peeled, seeded & chopped

3 tbl. sliced green onions

1 1/2 tsp. lemon juice

3 tsp. snipped fresh dill or 3/4 tsp. dried dill weed

1/2 tsp. red pepper flakes

Directions:

In medium bowl, beat cream cheese and mayo until smooth.  Add rest of ingredients, cover and chill for one hour.  Serve with Wheat Thin crackers.

Next Day Converstion:

Fabulous with grilled chicken on flatbread, in pita bread, or rolled in a tortilla shell.

Detroit River Walleye

Sure was nice to have a sharp Iron River Works knife when prepping these fish for the fry pan!

Woke up 4:45 a.m.  Picked up my son, Adam, across town.

Got fuel and drove to the “D”

Limited out by 8 a.m.

Smallest Walleye was 20″    Largest Walleye was 30″, 8 lbs.

          Several 6 pounders.

Adam got one bigger! His was a 30″ pig. Mine had spawned already.

We had one heck of a time this morning with Captain Ed of Medicine Man Charters.  Great guy.  Knew where the fish were hiding.

Once we had our limit, we were upgrading and tossing fish back.  We threw back more than we kept and I almost wept when having to toss back 20 to 26″ walleye.   We were vertical jigging and the fish were hot.  Great day on a beautiful Ranger Walleye Boat.  Thank you Captain Ed!

Make sure you look at the very last photo!

…later that day, after arriving home to bag our catch for the freezer…THIS HAPPENED!

They are good fighters!

Now you know “THE REST OF THE STORY!”