In conversation with my mother recently, the subject of what she would like for Christmas this year came up. Thus begins the weirdest new way to celebrate the season.
*****
Trigger Warning: If you have recently lost a loved one and are grieving, I am sorry for your loss. However, this post is very much not intended for you. Unless you need someone to hate. Please, grieve responsibly. Thank you.
“Hey, Mom! Would you like a gift card to Meijer or just some cold hard cash you can use anywhere?” (I’m all about the sentiment of the holiday, dontcha know.)
“Actually, I need a DNR sign for my house. In case I die, I don’t want anybody trying to resuscitate me. It happened to the neighbor and afterward, she just didn’t come back the same.”
“Uh…well what if you fall and die when you aren’t at home? Wouldn’t a bracelet or something on you be better?”
[It only occurs to me later that a tattoo across the forehead would be exceptionally noticeable.]
“I’m already wearing my fall alert monitor. But, since I don’t wear it outside the house, I suppose I could do that.”
From mom’s tone, I can tell she’s still thinking of a sign for her door–or maybe a doormat? Something that reads “Grim Reaper Welcome?”
So many options, but I found this beauty on Zazzle!
It turns out there is a wide variety of I HEART DEATH related merchandise available after Halloween at murderously slashed prices. Though some are totally worth paying an exorbitant price for.
Be warned, the two installments of just $22.49 each is buying you a very tiny invitation to death. The above purchase size buys you 40 cm x 60 cm. Which, in American, is about the size of a large mailer envelope.
And then, because I was curious, I looked on Amazon and lo and behold, found this doormat:
Trust Amazon to have something made to order for every occasion.
Immediately after pulling up this Amazon find, the consumer questions popped up making me laugh despite the grim implications.
“Does it’s design prevent slipping?”
Imagine a product that ensures it becomes immediately useful?
While we talk, I am searching Amazon for something I can get Mom that speaks to the heart of our conversation without being utterly like buying a toe tag in anticipation.
A gift from the well-intentioned if slightly macabre at heart.
After I send a link and we have a short conversation, we agree. It’s perfect!
In finality, however you celebrate the season, remember, it might be your last. So celebrate it like you really mean it. And make sure your loved ones know you are thinking of them!
Perhaps this subject matter is too bleak, or in poor taste, for you to find this funny. That’s okay. Maybe you will be reassured that, no matter how hard I tried to find a Death Carol, I failed to locate “Have Yourself a Merry Little Deathmas!” And perhaps that is the happiest news of the day.
Then again, I did find this video:
For which you can be eternally grateful! You’re welcome.
Today I had an experience that summed up 2023 for me…it involved my son and the quest for an imaginary balloon. Please accept this story in lieu of a holiday letter that I haven’t written or sent yet.
For a long time, it was unavailable on the Walmart.com website. Then, finally, I saw there was a link to order said balloon–about two weeks before Christmas. I gladly paid over $11.00 for the dumb thing and, when the package arrived, I stored it in the closet where all things are locked safely away from my kid. (It’s like the Room of Requirements at Hogwarts, only much smaller and I have to stock it.)
The Day before Christmas came along (which to most people means December 24th but because I suffer from a failure to look at a calendar turned out to be December 23rd this year, sigh) and I opened the delivery package to discover I had been sent this balloon instead:
EXHIBIT B:
BALLOON TRAGEDY OF MEGA PROPORTIONS
It’s still a Poppy Trolls Themed Balloon, so no big problem, right?
!!WRONG!!
He wants the round one. He is autistic. He just wants the head of the troll doll, not the entire inflatable corpse! These things matter, people!
So, I immediately went to the email confirming receipt of my product to file an angry, pre-Christmas rant about how the evil Walmart goons had ruined my child’s Christmas. (It hadn’t, but it did panic me about what I was going to give him despite having all the other things he wanted. Mostly.)
I held onto the wrong balloon and waited for the reply. The Walmart-affiliated distributor apologized and gave us a full refund within 24-hours. They even said we could keep the balloon. Alexei was perfectly happy when he got it on the actual Christmas Day celebration on the 25th–which was only one of two presents he got that day because of my calendar-math related issue mentioned earlier.
Fast forward to today: Alexei got a Walmart gift card from Grandma Mary for Christmas. He has been a good boy and he’s been asking for an “Emoji Balloon” repeatedly the last couple of days. He’d seen the picture on the Walmart website. [I bet you are sensing what happens next.]
EXHIBIT C:
I decided it was an easy way to make him happy. We drive to the store and…no such balloon exists. They are selling Valentine’s balloons not to mention a Valentine Spaghetti Sauce and Noodle basket–when did that become a romantic gesture?–and it’s still only December!! What the actual H*LL?
The kid buys a stuffed Paw Patrol toy that he immediately wants when he sees it–despite having various versions of the same toy already–because it is dressed in the costume from the most-recent Paw Patrol Mighty Pups’ movie merchandise.
[Sidebar: we watched Mighty Pups last night. My absolute favorite line in the movie comes from a television reporter who is commenting on the franchise toys marketing the upgraded uniforms for the super-powered Paw Patrol team: “To all the parents out there, I’m sorry.” ]
Most parents would give up at this point. Not me. [Insert cackle of madness here.] We drive to our local Party City store.
There is an entire wall of balloons available, but, alas, no Emoji Balloon. There is also a line of customers getting balloons. Apparently people want to celebrate the New Year in style?
I get the clerk’s attention as she fills and ties balloons.
Me: “Hey, do you have any emoji balloons?”
Clerk #1: “No. I’m sorry. You know, a lot of people ask for them. We really should carry them! I’m sorry we don’t have them.”
I look up at the hundreds of options of mylar balloons overhead and try to convince the kid to pick something else.
Me: [encouraging flexibility] “Hey, would you like a Trolls balloon instead?”
Kid: [inflexibly]”Emoji balloon.”
The clerk is listening and when asked, pulls out a trolls balloon.
Clerk #1: “We have this one!”
If you can believe it, it’s the same darned balloon I tried to order for Christmas!! [See Exhibit A above.]
Me: “Hooray! We’ll take it!”
This will make the kid happy! The clerk blows it up–even asking what color string she should tie it with. She hands it to me. I hand it to the kid. He responds:
Kid: “Emoji balloon.”
He’s nothing if not consistent.
Clerk #1: “We have yellow balloons if you want one of those!?”
This one is trained very well, I can tell.
I sigh and tell her yes. As she finishes tying it off she makes a brilliant offer:
Clerk #1: “You know, I have a marker. I could draw a smiley face on it, if you like?”
Me: “OMG–yes! Thank you. You are a genius!”
When we are checking out. I mention to the cashier how nice the young lady who helped us was.
Me: “Is there anyway I can tell someone what a good job she’s doing?”
The young lady points to a QR Code that says:
“Highly Satisfied today? Scan below to give us your feedback for $5 off on your purchase.”
I take a picture of it, saying,
Me: “I’ll do my best, but I have a hard time filling these things out.”
Clerk #2: “Oh, I can help you with that.”
Within less than the time it takes to blow up and tie two balloons, she walks me through the process. I even ask for her name and add it to the customer satisfaction survey.
Clerk #2: “There you go. Now you can use the discount!”
She finishes ringing me up and wishes us a Happy New Year. I sincerely hope that Mariana and Delaney at Store 431 get a Happy New Year bonus for their exceptional help.
Because, as it turns out, 2023 wasn’t finished with us yet.
EXHIBIT D:
ALL THAT’S LEFT IS PHOTOGRAPHIC EVIDENCE
When we got home, I stopped to take a picture of my giggling, happy child before opening the door to let him in. Then, I turned, remembering I’d seen there was mail in the box as I was driving up. I let go of the door too soon…and I hear the worst sound:
!!POP!!
One of the balloons did not make it into the house. It got killed on the doorstep. Sigh.
Fortunately, my son enjoys deflating balloons, so he wasn’t as broken up about it as I was.
So if all 2023 does is to deflate your joy by half, I guess, that’s about as good as it gets!
After getting back from taking my son to his favorite place on Earth–sorry, Disney, it’s not you–I stop him at the door to the house and say,“Mommy wants a kiss for taking you to Millenium Park!”
The grudging peck on the cheek I get is accompanied by a shove to get the door open.
Not entirely feeling the love, I ask my son “Who’s the best mom in the world?”
His reply?
“Thank you!” (As if I just complimented him!!)
Having a non-verbal child means he doubles-down on the incommunicative teenager stereotype big time. Scripted speech, like ‘Please’ and ‘Thank-you’ which he practices repeatedly, usually suffice for daily living. But, every once in a while, a mom wants a little validation.
“Who’s the best mom in the world?” I repeat as I unlock the door. And then I answer my own question, “Mommy is!”
My son ignores me, brushes past and demands “Laundry” so we can wash his toy Lightning McQueen stuffies and blanket.
It’s TACO TUESDAY every day with my son’s foldable, soft mattress from Talsma’s Furniture.
Just over four years ago, Talsma Furniture sold me a Serta RestoKraft mattress with a five-year warranty. Apparently that warranty only holds true if your mattress has no stains. The fact that my son’s mattress can be folded like a soft taco is immaterial.
I’m vexed, miffed, and annoyed. And I have a blog.
If you want to give me an early birthday present–please share this as frequently and violently as most people share their political rants in an election year. Let the stuffing fly!
I have always wanted to be a smart person. Or, at least, to feel like I was a smart person.
I have also been suffering lately from the certainty that I am not getting any smarter. In fact, there is evidence to suggest I may be regressing and losing my faculties altogether.
In other words, I am getting dumber.
How do I know this? I tried recently to be clever and failed.
I attempted to write a post. I wanted to be witty and erudite, to create a mathematical equation quantifying the values of parenting–like something you might see on a white board on The Big Bang Theory set. I wrote for hours. I struggled. I waffled. I flailed in my efforts to write what my brain kept telling me what should be a funny post.
At the same time, I have been trying to research what kind of cell phone or carrier to switch before my iPhone dies for good. The more I read on the topic, the less sure I am that I am capable of making a rational, informed decision.
To stave off complete digital death, I switched off as many features of my ‘smart’ phone so as to conserve the battery life past a nano-second. I turned off so many functions, my phone stopped receiving voicemails and texts. As a result, my ‘smart’ phone is now a dumb phone which is holding my information hostage until I turn my data back on.
Didn’t phones used to just work before ‘data’ was invented?*
Why is a phone designed to use data to send a message anyway?**
*shouts into the abyss*
WHHHHHHHHHHYYYYYYY?
In my efforts to keep my phone running while not plugged into a recharger, I even deleted Facebook from my apps.
The entire next day I learned exactly how often I have been checking Facebook. Like, every fricking time I had a break…or had to wait in line…or stopped at a red light for more than two seconds. I wish I were kidding.
So, I’ve learned two things this week: I am not getting smarter and my phone is possibly making me dumber.
In my research for ‘smart’ terminology, I found a physics term that I feel describes my mental state:
En·tro·py, noun
/ˈentrəpē/
PHYSICS
a thermodynamic quantity representing the unavailability of a system’s thermal energy for conversion into mechanical work, often interpreted as the degree of disorder or randomness in the system.
lack of order or predictability; gradual decline into disorder.
Apparently I am suffering from a terminal case of entropy.***
Let’s just hope it’s not stupidly fatal.
Asterisk Bedazzled Footnote:
*C’mon conspiracy theory junkies, give me your best explanation for why phones cost ten times as much to do half as well for less years than you’d like. And then tell me why we fall for it?
**GROUP BREAK-OUT SESSION: What exactly is DATA and why is it the new gold standard for the inequalities between the haves and the have-nots? Discuss.
***Additional proof of my stupidification is denoted by the fact that I have to use the second definition of Entropy to understand the meaning of the word.
*—*—*
The Image Stolen for this header comes from a site that did a much better job of actually explaining entropy–in case any of you are smarter and want to read up on it.
Definitely Stolen Image…Come on Disney, let me have this one!
In science fiction/fantasy stories, when the heroine has pissed off the gods or broken the ancient talisman of her people, she can go on a quest to redeem her honor. Sure, she may have to crop her hair and dress like a boy to defeat the Hun army…but in the end, it’s worth it.
She returns with the seal of the emperor and is held up as an example of once-in-a-lifetime courage and fortitude. At the very least, she is welcomed back home with cries of “Huzzah” or a marriage proposal.
At what point does our heroine realize that she is in an epic battle for her existence?* Maybe to her it just seemed like a lot of bad luck rolled up on her at once?
I ask this question, in truth, because I think I missed a giant clue along the way.
Or I’ve defiled a temple somewhere and the gods are angry.
I am currently enjoying a period of forced minimalism, otherwise known as being broke.
I have never budgeted. As a result, I have also never saved much money. I just let the paycheck drop into the account and spent said moolah on whatever I wanted and periodically looked to make sure I wasn’t dipping below the fill-line, so to speak, trusting that the bank will never run out of money.
But it did…for about three days.
November had five Thursdays in it.
FIVE!
Did you notice? I certainly didn’t.
Fun fact, our social security payment arrives on the last Thursday of the month. I auto-pay my bills electronically on or around the 25th because, usually, by then the check has hit the bank.
Unless there are five Thursdays.
Five Thursdays spells disaster with my current un-budgeted way of life. If I’m not careful, the money doesn’t quite stretch to cover the month unless I pay attention and not buy every indulgence that catches my eye.
The Victorians had a very odd notion of discipline if this is what they think it looks like!
I had no idea what a spend thrift I could be until I realized I couldn’t spend ANY money for three days.
I mean none.
I got through the days of parsimony and rue recognizing that I have some really bad habits.
It was about this point of writing, I began to regret Googling “Naughty Elf.”
It was time to enforce some strict discipline…
I looked at my love of fancy compressed curds and altered my favorite Thanksgiving side dish to omit the Grueyer and Emmenthaler cheeses.**
Turns out, I might just need a cheddar-vention.
I have some expensive, thoughtless, habits that I now need to pay attention to.
A sudden need for a french fry fix makes me commit a fast food drive by almost without thinking about it. The doctor, at least, will be happy to hear we are cutting back on our deep-fried addictions.
The road to my personal hell is paved with indulgences that would make angels weep.***
So, I’m submitting myself to some long-needed tightening of the purse-strings.
I didn’t notice the Ayn Rand book front and center until I downloaded the image. Mea Culpa.
No more wine.
We won’t mention over-priced chai lattes that you can get at Biggby’s.
And I’m going to cut back on the diet cherry coke habit, though I worry I might actually kill somebody for a taste of the sparkling poison, so be warned.
I am now faced with the consequences of life-long bad habits. I must buckle down and pay attention to my finances and make fiscally restrictive choices. Or, find another way to make income.
Which brings me to my brilliant sub-theme.
My New Year’s Resolution will be to find out which of the following jobs is the least repellent way to bring in extra cash:
Will Humiliate for Food
I once read a profile on OKCupid for a guy who was willing to pay women to come out to California, dress in appropriate costumes, and humiliate him for hard cash. I’m not entirely sure if this one wasn’t an invitation to join a sex-trade, but maybe he has Skype?
Phoning It In
Sex phone operator. In which we find out whether I can suppress the giggles long enough to achieve a quasi-sultry conclusion. Also, where exactly am I going to do this in a house full of therapy techs and my ever-present child? I’m yawning the minute it hits 8:00 pm…this will take some thought.
Lashing the Page
Or, based on what I’ve seen while Googling images for this topic, there’s an aching void waiting to be filled in the Christmas-based sadomasochism/erotica market. Now how shall I plug that hole?
With such exciting job prospects, I’ll be sure to report back I am once more swimming in something festively green…hopefully it’s money and not jello with marshmallows on a pay-per-view fetish site.
Oh, and could someone remind me in the third week of January that the month has five Thursdays? Thanks.
Asterisk Bedazzled Footnotes:
*Which, at Christmas, means everything. My inner child is a window-shopping glutton.
***It doesn’t make angles weep–which is what I originally wrote–but then I decided the heartless bastards would just laugh for 90 degrees in their corners until it was no longer funny or acute. How obtuse!
While I was surviving the past six months, fun events still happened. They just were overshadowed by the dark cloud looming. Now that the storm has passed, everything is sunny skies…or should I say…bunny skies?
*
It was high noon in Bunny Town.
When trouble showed its floppy ears.
Some folks might say, he was itching for a hare-raising fight.
Others believe, the dastardly bunnies had it coming.
The lone bunny rider looked honest…honestly dangerous.
He dressed all in white…except for the mask.
Quite a quiet furry fury, indeed.
Clemson Cadbury—Clem to his friends—rode into Bunny Town one fine day.
He was wanting to put up his lucky rabbit’s feet and ease his saddle sores at the only hopping joint in town:
The Rabbit Hare Saloon
Where the phrase “Hare of the dog” takes on a whole new meaning.
The girls at the saloon were of the heart of gold variety.
They made a rabbit want to sit up and pay attention.
To push his fuzzy-tailed luck.
“Who was that masked rabbit?” The girls at the saloon swoon as he goes by.
But Clem only had eyes for the sweet, sloe-eyed school marm who taught the A, B, C’s of being a bunny.*
His heart belonged to that fair damsel–Flory-Dory Flopsalot.
A fragile flower of the Topeka, Kansas Flopsalots.
Clem would have happily laid his hat—or his heart—at Flory-Dory’s feet for her taking or stomping there upon.
But Flory-Dory’s uncle was the local sheriff and he put no faith in lone rabbits who just moseyed on through his town.
So Clem spent his lonely hours, pining for his true love, and sipping dandelion sarsaparillas at the Bunny Bar Saloon.
Until the day he tangled with the Black Bunny Banditos!
Who knows why town founders put the Peter Rabbit School right next to the only bar in town? You’d think they’d have thunk that through a mite!
Clem didn’t know, when he entered that bar that fateful day, that a gang of hardened thugs were also looking to play.
They were bad bunnies with bad attitudes.
And they didn’t care what kind of mask a bunny hid behind.
The Coney Brothers: Bippity, Boppity, and Beauregard—were wanted county-wide by the long-ear of the law. They were trying real hard to live down the sweet names their momma gave ’em. Particularly Piebald Beau—who threatened anyone who tried to tie a ribbon around him come Easter time!
Clem was nursing a carrot-infused herbal tonic and the saloon honey-bunnies were taking his orders—hopping to get whatever he wanted.
The three black-hearted bunny banditos entered the saloon.
Their tail spurs jingled as they hopped.
Bippity tried to snag his favorite coquette–Odette.
But Odette was batting her lashes at Clem.
Boppity yelled for his bunnymondaine—but Desbegonia had no time for the ruff-necked, lop-eared cur.
No, Desbegonia was dancing to and fro, making Clem watch her as she’d go.
Then Beauregard stepped through the door and stood there watching a minute or more.
He waited. He wanted. But his flowery filly—Daffydilly—was not to be found.
Except, wherever Clem was around!
Daffydilly sang sweet serenades to woo her beau…
(But not the rabbit by that name, no!)
Beauregard spit out his cheroot and hollered at his boys to scoot!
“No interloping jackalope claims our pieces of fluff!” Said he.
And off behind the saloon went the three…
Clem had no clue when he stepped outside
An ambush awaited his white-tailed hide.
But Flory-Dory knew!
From her chair near the window, she’d watch and sigh, whenever the handsome buck went by.
So, when the school marm saw her rabbit in trouble, she called for the sheriff on the double!
Sheriff “Lefty” Cottontail.**
Sheriff @bun_the_rabbit_619 courtesy of Websta Instagramer
Sheriff Cottontail was none to keen to confront the three rapscallions—despite their lawless ways.
He was a laid-back lawman who let other people’s bullets do the talking.
Sheriff Cottontail demonstrates his floppy philosophy of ‘laying down the law.’
But Flory-Dory wasn’t letting her lily-livered uncle get away with that!
“I’ll take on those ne’er-do-wells myself, iffn I have to!” Said Flory-Dory.
If she’dve had a spittoon nearby, she’dve spat in it for emphasis.
With this incentive, Sheriff Cottontail, decides it’s better to fight like a rabbit, than to be shown up as all fluff and no tail.
He hops to Clem’s side in the nick of time.
Sheriff Lefty (pictured right) and Clem
This weirdly appropriate duo brought to you by #Bunnyfest #Ameliaisnothavingit # Deskgram
The dastardly Coney Brothers had trussed Clem up in baling wire and dangled him by his stubby tail over a vat of sugar syrup.
“We’re gonna dunk you neck-deep in this here sassafras barrel.” Piebald Beau promised Clem. “When they find your sorry sack of fur, all will think that you fell in to get a drink.”
Then in flopped the Sheriff, long and fat, and squashed those Coney brothers flat!
It warn’t no time at all before the bad bunny brothers were rounded up and thrown into the hoosegow.***
But Sheriff Cottontail knew, it wouldn’t be long before those bunnies were back bearing a grudge.
The Black-Hearted Bunny Banditos
Bippity, Boppity, and Beauregard Coney were hardened by a life of crime and no amount of time spent stamping state license plates could sway them from their cattle-rustling ways.
So the sheriff hired his niece to be his stalwart deputy!
And if you want to know where I captured the pictures that I didn’t pilfer online, check out Klackle Orchards in Greenville, MI when fall rolls around again.
I travel for a purpose. Generally, that purpose is to get to a destination. Sometimes, however, for my son’s sake, I travel for distance. For pleasure. To lose myself in the rolling roads dividing the countryside into rows of waving cornstalks and fields of bucolic cows chewing endless mouthfuls of grass. Usually there is an Aaron Copland sound track playing in my imagination.*
Recently, however, I had this experience backfire…and go hilariously bad. The tale ends up with a life-saving intervention from the Michigan DNR and a ‘Hail Mary’ airport pick-up. Join us for the missed-flight entertainment, if you dare, on the adventure I am calling:
F*ck the Road Less Traveled
It all begins with meeting a friend from afar.
*
Like most heroic quests, ‘Jay’ comes a long way to meet me. (Okay…technically she is visiting family, but still, meeting me is the added cherry on the trip-from-Japan Sundae.) Unlike most of my ‘internet friends’ who are likely market-research algorithms with questionable profile pics, Jay is a real live person.
Jay is so terribly cool, she met up with me at the nearby Panera for an hour of lovely conversation–despite juggling jet lag, a toddler, and the joys of accommodating myriad family obligations to meet up with someone she only knows in the digital sense from Nanowrimo.**
Little Jay, Big Jay, and Bunny and Me, yukking it up at Panera!
I was geeked. Her dad joined the venture–mostly because he was her chauffeur–but he was an engaging story teller who kept the conversation rolling. When our time together ran out, he invited me to come up to the family reunion scheduled for Saturday next.
“Sure.” I say. “But I’ll have to leave in time to get my mother-in-law from the airport.”
“I live in the woods, so, when you get up there, just call me and I’ll meet you so you can follow me back to the house.” He assures me.
“Oh, I have GPS. I’ve been up in that area before. I’m sure I’ll be fine.”
FAMOUS.
LAST.
WORDS.
Saturday rolls around and I cram my kid in the car and we’re off winding the back roads of beyond because I haven’t yet figured out that my car’s GPS has been avoiding highways on purpose. We arrive with only a few rural/off-map detours. (Okay…we got lost three times finding the house. But for me, that’s ONLY three times.) This makes me unbelievably cocky. If you don’t know me well, know this…if anyone can get lost going someplace, it’s me. But, I’ve come to rely on my son’s innate desire to travel to get us where we want to go.
Mistake.
BIG MISTAKE!
Here is my personal GPS Giant playing next to Jay’s sweet little munchkin.
Jay is warm, her daughter is adorable, and her father is welcoming. A yard full of strangers don’t question me or my giant son’s right to be there. The picnic is a nice, if brief, interlude at someone else’s family reunion. Before long, it’s time for us to leave to meet a plane. I tender our regrets clutching the scrawled map Jay’s father painstakingly wrote out for me to follow back to civilization. Upon leaving, I immediately take a wrong turn and don’t figure it out until it is far, far too late. Much to my son’s delight.
If you have never been to Fremont, Michigan, I highly recommend you visit. Especially if you want to become part of the witness protection program. Because, I promise you, once you move there, no one will find you again. Ever.
We are in the car, driving in the wrong direction, down a dirt path and I’m alternately swerving to avoid trees that are apparently just growing in the middle of the track we are following and I’m questioning whether the map is wrong or I am.***
It’s when we finally hit tarmac that I make my worst mistake of the day. There is an option to turn left or right. A quick glance at my dashboard GPS is of no help. So, with my son as the designated navigator we turn left. The most mistaken 50-50 shot of all.
This is where the paved road ends…
Not the actual road, but this is basically what it looked like. I didn’t know at the time I should be making a visual record in case they ever found our bodies…
When asked whether we should turn around or keep going, my son’s intrepid response?
“Straight!” He barks from the back seat.
I eyeball my GPS doubtfully, tap the screen and gauge how far it is through the unmarked green area to the road it depicts on the other side.
“Well, it doesn’t look like it’s too far…about half an inch.” I think to myself. “How far could that be?”
Those of you who have ever taken a snowmobile trail are probably laughing your heads off at this point. I, however, haven’t a clue.
And into the woods we go…
About fifteen minutes in, I decide I’d better start taking note of landmarks…not that they were much help, to be honest.
Need I mention it is a one-lane track?
It took me wayyyy too long to figure out my GPS was just turning in circles because it either had lost a signal or was metaphorically throwing its hands up in defeat.
And that we need to hit Highway 31 pretty darned quick if we are going to have a chance to make the forty-some odd miles back to the airport in G.R.?
There were all these helpful posts. What a shame I had no internet connection so I could look up what they meant.
Pretty soon, things get a bit desperate. We’ve been in the woods for at least half an hour. We are definitely going to miss the flight we were scheduled to meet!
Who do you call when, at fifty-one years of age, you are lost and need assistance?
*Gets cell phone*
BEEP.. BEEP.. BOOP.. BEEP.. BOOP…
“MOM? HELP!”
After a frantic conversation in which I fear signal loss almost as much as I fear the drones of mosquitoes following our car like we are to-go container they are trying to figure how to open, Mom comes to the rescue…
Insert appropriate theme song here
…of my mother-in-law anyway.
“I’ll go.” Mom promises. “But you owe me! I was already in my pajamas for the night!”
We keep driving. The huddling clouds overhead limit what visibility we do have beneath the canopy of the old growth forest we are traversing.
I’m not exactly panicking…yet.
But I’m thinking about it.
Last seen wearing…turquoise sweater and eau du desperation!
When along comes the cavalry…
I have to unroll my window in order to ask for directions.
The mosquitoes, at least, were deliriously happy.
Cavalry not picture–I promised not to include their sacred images if they would tell me how to get out of the labyrinth I wandered into by mistake.
The nice young men from the DNR—wait…doesn’t that mean Do Not Resuscitate?—correction, the Forest Service Department of Agriculture (it says it right on the door, Kiri) give me some directions on how to get out of the woods.
“You’re gonna come up on a fork in a bit, take it to the left…then you follow the road until you see the exit to Highway 31. It’s not that much farther.”
I thank them, and slap at mosquitoes trying for a second pint of blood, before I hastily close the window to depart.
Our vehicles squeeze past each other like fat ladies wearing hoop skirts moving through a narrow hall.
And then we are back on the trail, slightly more confident that we will make it home.
But first….
There’s the fork…
I so would have taken a right here had I been given a choice.
And more trees than you can shake a stick at.
And then we come to what looks like another choice…
All that sunshine gave me the deluded hope our trials were at an end. But no!
This turns out to be a random opening in the forest.
“What the actual hell?” I am cursing young men who think they gave detailed directions but obviously skipped a few steps.
If I knew how to use Google Earth, I’d check to see if our little blue Prius was captured in the center somewhere.
I dub this wasteland: Donutsville. Because that is the obvious pastime of most who come here.
While it is possible to go left, that way seems certain doom based on the quantity of wild flowers and stumps in the way.
We veer right and hold on to a waning hope.
The GPS is now openly mocking me.
It dances in circles around and around but never moves toward Highway 31 and freedom.
This seriously sucks.
We pass the dusty roundabout, heading right.
Pretty soon, we see a verdant meadow, puffy clouds, and dream of escaping this wildness nightmare.
But those fantasies are dashed by what looks like the burial site for other lost travelers cleverly disguised as a “Coastal Plain Marsh.”
So close…
You can almost taste the asphalt…
But NO! It’s back to the woods for you!
Leaving the erstwhile, granite grave markers in our rearview mirror, I can’t help but feel like the forest is trying to tell us something.
But what could it be saying?
“Eyes on the Road, Mom!”
Apparently, it’s telling us it is time to go home.
There, in the distance, it beckons us.
The way out!
Ahhhh….civilization…or as close as it comes in rural Michigan.
It may be the middle of nowhere…but at least it’s a well-marked nowhere.
As we drove home…we admired the sights we thought we’d never see again…
Highway construction–a sure sign of civilization if I ever saw one!
Even traffic cones were a welcome sight!
We passed the bakery with the oddest name ever for a location smack in the middle of an alluvial plain.
HILLTOP BAKERY? HILL? WHAT HILL?
And then, like the plains of Africa in the song by Toto, the rains came.
Bedraggled and drained, we make it home in time for dinner.
And it’s going to take a lot to drag me back to Fremont unless I’m giving a guided tour, perhaps by a team of strapping forest preserve on-call rescuers? For emergency purposes only, of course.
Until then, I grow restless, longing for some solitary company…and a song to sing me home.
Asterisk Bedazzled Footnote:
*I mistakenly Googled Erin Copeland and got a completely unsuitable track the first time. #NOT MY MUSIC.
**If you do not know what NANOWRIMO is, we are apparently not as close as my imaginary internet friends.
Nine out of ten people won’t read past this sentence.
You can’t believe how this story turns out!
Who would have thought anything so strange, bright, bold, beautiful, and bouncy could happen here?
Only my real friends will read to the end, and copy and paste this, and dance naked in the rain while singing the theme to the Brady Bunch.
“Here’s the story…of a lovely lady…”
Try not to hate me.
*
CLICK BAIT!
I guess I am as guilty as anyone else. I click the title that leaves me hanging, that asks for, nay, demands attention. A dangling question mark with a spurious answer. Unless it has a mysterious sea creature or a poisonous arachnid that I absolutely must know about before going to bed. (‘Cause that’s not gonna cause nightmares at all!)
What I’m saying is, I’m a sucker for flashy headlines that drag me onto an eye-blistering site with multiple pop-up ads, hidden read-more arrows disguised by embedded commercials. Oh, and let’s not forget the blinking GIFS causing neural disruptions. FUN!
I hate that I fall for these things because they drag me away from real life and important things…like laundry and grocery shopping.*
Sometimes I lie to myself–that following these idiotic stories is in pursuit of knowledge.
I’ve watched videos on the metamorphoses talents of cuttle fish and octopi which change outfits so often they are the aquatic equivalent of The Next Top Model, but underwater.**
Though my favorite videos are by the guy who voiced Dear Kitten Commercials. It’s awesome when he goes off the deep end:
If you’ve got a hook, I’ve probably swallowed it:
Pseudo science dumbed down to bite-sized consumer factoids?
Bring on the quasi science fiction babble about neutrinos emissions formed with pop rocks and microwaved coca-cola.
Something innocuous actually poised to kill or permanently maim mankind?
I swear, everyday someone is ruining a favorite treat with a gross video or unsubstantiated claim about the poisons in our everyday life. My mom sent me one about my favorite ‘Don’t Kill Anyone Today Beverage.”
I read the whole thing, but didn’t see any links to data or studies. But then, I was reading it on a microscopic phone screen while simultaneously trying to keep track of my boy child. Still, who has time to follow up on the facts? Not when there’s all this junk to sift through!
(Google this yourself. I’d break the internet trying this on my old laptop.)
I’d like to say that, knowing the dangers and misrepresentations, I won’t fall for these time wasters any more. But I really don’t have any answers. All I know is that putting the iPhone down for a weekend won’t kill you. Will it?
Hang on…Googles topic…Okay…finds story on the Daily Beast (which is no doubt a reputable news source with a name like that):
DISCLAIMER: if you plan to become a luddite and leave the internet behind, perhaps you should consult a doctor before taking any drastic measures…or take away a teenager’s XBox.
There should be an easy path back to a normal life. A life unplugged and free from anxiety-inducing ersatz drama. One where you don’t jump at every text DING like a Pavlovian pooch or fall for sleezy, but alluring, tabloid-esque, ALL CAP article headlines. There must be a way back to normal!
But that’s a story for another day. I’ve got the car packed to go camping and a teenager waiting for his car ride away from electronic distractions.
Hopefully we will both survive to meme another day.***
Asterisk Bedazzled Footnotes:
*Okay, I really hate doing laundry and grocery shopping so it doesn’t take much to distract me from a task…oh look, a SQUIRREL!
**You know that an Underwater reality show is in the works somewhere. Hosts will be Ursula the Sea Witch from The Little Mermaid and Charlie the Tuna from the Star Kist commercials.
***I’ve been meaning to write this one for a while. And to do a much better job of it than this. Sorry.
TheDustSeason 