Row Row Row Your Boat...Your Dad Will Kick My Ass

My mom's parents had a cottage up on Twin Bear Lake near Iron River, Wisconsin. Up until the early-mid 80's, we had traveled up there every summer for a week or so to take in the scenery and live among the giant spiders. And black bears. And skunks. And raccoons. You never would've caught me outside after dark. The spiders alone were enough to conjure up terrifying stories of small children being carried off by one of them.

I was never a fishing/hunting kid. Worms were ishy, and if I was ever forced to bait my own hook, it was all I could do keep the barf down when the hook poked through worm flesh. Same for removing the inevitable bluegill from the hook. Any fishing off our dock with me involved one other person, usually my mom or dad, and I'd swing the fishing pole at them to either bait or remove.

Despite all this ookiness, I have some great memories of my time up in the cottage...aluminum tumblers, the (now) retro kitchen table and chairs (yeah, the sparkly red vinyl!), Uncle John's Bathroom Book. The book always sat on the toilet tank and as a kid, it was taboo. I suppose I spent a longer amount of time in the can, sneaking peeks at it while doing my business. This is probably why I now spend WAY too much time in the bathroom. The bathroom is my second library at this point.

The cottage was perched right on the edge of a drop down to the lake. There were a series of stairs leading down to the dock, the railing made from birch tree branches. I never used the railing. Giant spider haven. Even then, filled with the exuberance and stamina of a child, the run back up the stairs to the cottage was sucky.

On the property was a pump house that resembled a little red barn and a mysterious thumping sound could always be heard coming from it...another place I steered clear of. Amazing, really, the things that creep you out as a kid, where if you had just asked someone, you still would've steered clear of it, likely, but at least you'd know what it was. Imagination is a powerful thing.

There was also a big garage constructed of white corrugated panels. I think the roof (maybe the walls too) were fiberglass, because I was always in awe of the amount of light and the airy feeling inside the garage. It smelled like worms and fishing tackle and there was a big old white fridge, that was always stocked with bait and Pop Shoppe pop. The cream soda and strawberry flavors never lasted long when I was there visiting.

Those of us non-sportsman guests spent a lot of time picking blackberries, traveling in the "Iron River Bus" to the dump to get an up-close look at the black bears, and catching painted turtles with a net in a quiet corner of the lake and racing them off our dock later. Heather and I would sit out in the rowboat in that lily-pad strewn spot as much as we could. She was a pro at the catching and eventually trained me as a competent second-in-command. We would even catch extra for my little brother and anyone else up visiting, so we could all participate in the turtle race.

Once, Heather's friend Jenny was with us and we took her with to the turtle catching spot. I think it was her first time in this event and she was having trouble catching anything. When she finally did net her first turtle, we pulled it aboard and EW. A giant nasty leech was parked on top of the turtle's shell. As Heather tried to scrape the leech off the turtle with the frame of the net while Yertle was perched on the edge of the rowboat, we all shrieked like banshees and I'm sure if anyone was within earshot, it would've set their hair on end. One final attempt at scraping and the turtle pivoted too much toward the water and PLOP! Back to the depths of the lake, turtle and leech backpack. And the shrieking halted abruptly at the same time as the splash. Then silence. Then the shrieking was replaced by loud, raucous laughter. Dude, leeches are grody.

On the other side of the lake from our cottage was a beach that we would hang out at once in a while, and not far from it, after we'd row under a bridge was a bigger version of our turtle catching area. Huge lily-pads, water bugs, weeds. Heather is older than I am and she would always be the designated rower. One late afternoon, we took our nets and rowed out to the far side of the lake, I can't remember now, but it felt like it was hours away by rowboat. We spent some time out in the pond hunting for more turtles, but no joy. When we started back for the cottage, we were losing daylight and mild panic started to set in. We both had a good sense of direction, and I don't remember being all that concerned about not being able to find our dock, the lake wasn't that big. What was disconcerting was the absolute, utter blackness that would settle in once the sun went down. No moon that night, of course.

So, there we were, in the middle of the lake, and there was no way to tell where sky met trees met shore. I doubt if we could see each other in the boat. There's me...violating my "after-dark" policy, and I could swear every nasty creature was swarming around our boat waiting for one of us to fall in. Heb just kept plugging along with the oars and I sat in the front of the boat, feeling very small. At some point, we both noticed a flashing light coming from the direction of our dock. Yea! Somebody's trying to help us find our way! Ulp. It's my dad. I can't POSSIBLY imagine that he's pleased with us at the moment. And that, right there? Was the moment that every nasty creature disappeared from around the boat and was replaced by that icky gut feeling you get when you are row, row, rowing your boat toward ugly punishment.

I don't remember my dad ever hitting me except once when I got a crack across the rear end for some transgression. Nevertheless, in my mind, he was never someone I wanted to cross. Just being in the mere presence of him when you know you did something wrong was suffocating. I don't know how Heb felt at that point, but as we rowed toward the dock and I recognized the voice as that of my dad's, well, I have to admit at this very moment as I type this, I can't remember anything after that. Well, except for that overwhelming urge to flop down on the dock, kiss a giant spider and wail, "Land!"

Happy Thanksgiving

Bucking the system, the Kuj Tribe way

Brother and I are thinking this is a prime piece of living room furniture. So much so that we're considering reassembling his old bunk bed (upper decker only) my dad made for Brother when he was little, and buying a decent looking futon bed/couch thingy for under it.


Thirty-somethings (three of them), who have been spotted--more than once--outside in their stretchy clothes, living in a house with a bunk bed/futon combo in their living room. Outside the norm? Most definitely. Funky? Or just creepy? You decide.

Btw, we actually went to this store to check out the couch behind this contraption. When we attempted to take it down off the rack it was perched on, the arm on the side I was lifting popped off and clocked me in the jaw (it was upholstered and cushy). I had to lay down on another couch and wait for the laughing/crying jag to pass. We get the couch to where we can sit on it and mess with it (in the aisle, likely blocking fire routes). Brother flattens it out into a bed (it's one of those cheesy klik-klak things), proceeds to lay down across it and I watch as it tips to one side and nearly ejects him. The look on his face and the position (picture trying to push a cat into a toilet...limbs splayed): more laughing jag. And some drooling. And definite flood of tears. Never mind when Brother tried to vault himself up onto the top bunk and instead managed to crush his junk when he slammed into the front of it.

We've decided to blame all this store hijinks on the two of us working 10 hour days all this week. Brother+slap happy=destruction of property. Me+slap happy=fits of hysteric laughter. This has been proven in the past, such as the late night run through Milwaukee before the Indy car race. That is another story, however.

*****

The CVSC has a funny pics thread and this one has been in there for a while. But it's taken on a life of its own as of two days ago during our pre-dawn commute.


I had recently posted new funny pictures on the thread and you have to scroll down past the Gothopotamus shot to get to the new pics. I even dwelled on it for a while once again before going to the newest post. As previously stated, Brother and I have been commuting to work together. We work within a mile of each other and the 20 minutes together saves us gas, and my boss is gracious enough to allow me to adjust my schedule (and get overtime...never bad). I'm excessively groggy first thing in the morning, Brother is fairly quiet at that time too. As we ride up to Chippewa, he sighs and says quietly, "Gothopotamus." To which we both begin to chuckle softly. And it builds into laughter.

That night, as we are driving home, we're trying to figure out the gender of the leashed one. I argue that it's a dude. Brother, and later, Mostly Naked, both believe it to be a female. The unfortunate (yet hilarious) side effect is that now Brother and I have started to add "opotamus" to the end of nearly any word we speak. Which, much in the way of farts, makes me giggle audibly. Every time....opotamus.

*****

I nearly forgot our stop at Menards prior to the sofa bed debacle. Brother was in the market for 3 8-foot pieces of 2x4 lumber. He handed me one and took the other two. As we were walking to the cash register I'm carrying my piece under one arm, Brother the two over his shoulder. Like a comedy we are...just waiting to happen. I keep poking him in the rear with my piece. He keeps saying "Stop shoving your wood in my ass." Well, now I'm having fun. It's not often a girl gets to walk around carrying her very own wood. I say, "I'm putting my wood up on the conveyor belt." Brother says to the dazed young cashier, "My good man, ring up my wood." I say, "Yeah, ring up his sister's wood too." Dazed young cashier giggles and rings up our collective wood.

Lack of sleepopotamus, I tell you.

*****

Lastly, a few nights ago, we were waiting at Papa Murphy's for our Steak Gorgonzola pizza (note: Mostly Naked does not favor Gorgonzola cheese in large chunks...I nearly jumped out of the way as it appeared he was going to vomit the one bite he took; needless to say, the remainder of the pizza was ours). I watched an elderly man nearly fall over as he turned around and shifted his weight dramatically to avoid this hole in the flooropotamus.

Trapped in a small space with nowhere to run, it took all the fortitude I could summon to not laugh out loud at himopotamus. I merely turned to my brother and managed to whisper, "That man nearly fell in that hole." Brother said, "There's a blog post." Indeedopotamus.

I'm glad I'm out of thoughts for this post. My stomach hurts from laughing...more...again. Cheers!

...opotamus.

All Skate! Everyone out on the floor!

I've had a couple of old Michael Jackson songs on my mp3 player for at least a year now. Old, as in, when Michael Jackson was still black. And...normal-looking. And you couldn't see his brain by way of his nostrils. I've played "Can't Stop Till You Get Enough" and "Rock With You" over and over and haven't gotten sick of them yet.

I'm a crazy Google monkey, I will admit. If a thought occurs to me and there's no one around to hear it...or I get that "you are such a retard" look, I turn to my trusty Google. Really, you can Google just about anything. "What date did Hitler invade Poland?" "What's this lump behind my ear?" "Who was the tallest man?" "Why do zippered hoodies make your t-shirt choke you?" No dice on that last one, though if you're looking to fashion a Bigfoot costume, there's your search sentence.

The MJ songs were two of my favorites that I remembered dimly from my childhood days spent at the local roller rinks. During a club ride a month or so ago, I recalled the reason why I liked those songs and when I got home, I googled "roller skating music," because I might be missing more fantastic songs and, sure as I'm typing, playlists posted by other people triggered all kinds of recollections.

Roller skating is definitely a 2nd generation pastime on my mom's side of the family. I wouldn't be surprised if my grandparents were skaters, but I know for certain my mom and her sister spent most of their teenage years at a rink.

There were at least three rinks near us at the time. My favorite was Fireside in Schaumburg. It had a smooth wooden floor that had been urethaned within an inch of its life. It was bright, airy, high-ceilinged. The center area for "moves" was surrounded by a waist-high wall with maybe four openings to escape from. There was a "roller coaster" along the back wall if you were into working harder at cracking your skull open. And not a helmet to be seen. The floor was almost pillowy, I tell you. I know I spent time there with my cousins Beefcake and Heb, but I vaguely recall skating with my mom and aunt when the organist would play at the rink. Yes, an organist. Dig it.

It was a horrible, horrible day for me when I learned that Fireside was closing down. Now, I was going to be forced to go to, ugh...Coachlite. Dark, cramped, lumpy-ass concrete floor. Hated it. Until I ordered a "suicide" (every flavor of soda from the fountain in one cup). And 4-foot long red licorice ropes, capable of leaving welts. Sometimes you'd eat them too. Or...OR! You could use the red licorice as a straw and SIP your suicide with it. Heaven. My hate relationship with Coachlite started to weaken after these discoveries. What final straw broke the hatin' back? Boys. Ah, hormones. From then after, Coachlite became THE place to flirt. Until I started drinking alcohol...then, surprise surprise, you could flirt ANYWHERE with the booze runnin' through you. But that was a little later down the road. You likely can't drink and skate...you'd spill your Pink Lady.

LOVED the front stopper. This is back in the day where dragging a skate actually slowed you down instead of sending you into a high-speed spin.

My dad had moved up to the Twin Cities near the twilight of my skating years. He hooked Brother and I up with a new-fangled invention that was big in Minnesota at the time and I KNOW Tom and I were the only two kids in the neighborhood if not the WORLD with these.

Yup. Those lace the whole way up.

Coachlite wouldn't let us bring them in. Hah.

Music? I put together a list of the most memorable for me.

"Situation" by Yaz
"I Wanna Rock With You" by Michael Jackson
"Don't Stop Till You Get Enough" by Michael Jackson
"Bad Girls" by Donna Summer
"You Dropped the Bomb on Me" by The Gap Band
"Freakazoid" by Midnight Star
"In My House" by The Mary Jane Girls
"Jam On It" by Newcleus
"It Takes Two" by Rob Base

Hopefully, this jogs the memories of Brother, Heb, Momma and Auntie and they'll share their thoughts, too.

I'm glad I decided to write up this post...I feel better now...it's miserable outside and I'm fighting the urge to go fetal until Spring. Somebody find me a roller rink with a bar. Ooo! Camelbak!

Start stocking up on cat food

I won't say who I voted for in this past election. Let's just say that, since Wednesday morning's results, I've been looking for ways to survive the all-but-certain implosion of my IRA, the probable increase in my property taxes, and the likely pounding my small business employer is going to take, all in the name of helping those who are too lazy to help themselves.

How to Make Alcohol from Common Table Sugar

I wonder if I can toast the generic version of Cocoa Krispies on a hot plate for flavor...maybe get something close to the taste of Beamish.

Also? Google reveals a number of Ramen cookbooks. Grilled. Seriously.

Internet Cookies, or Taking Baked Goods from Strangers

Cheryl, my faithful blog viewer and fellow blogger, "booed" my blog earlier last month. She posted a Halloween poem booing me in my comments section and then ordered my virtual ass over to her friend Claudia's blog, highlowaha.com. I, in turn, posted a comment that I had been booed. And, I apparently was the winner of a drawing for "boo-ees."

I've poked around in Claudia's site a little, but the creativity thing really only resides in me by way of words. Still, she comes up with some JENUS ideas. You should visit if you're looking for that creative whack upside the head...namely, the rest of my ingeniously creative family.

Anyway, my winnin's arrived Saturday via Jim, our trusty postal carrier. Here's what I won!

Don't be jealous of my sweet, sweet Hollow-weenie slips!

Brother test-drives the Internet cookies.

Come on, like I was going to try them first...that's why God made little brothers. Claudia also included a lovely note and a gift card for Starbucks. Thanks, Claudia and Cheryl!

My own stupid clothes are trying to kill me

I'm wearing a t-shirt today with a fleece zip-up hoodie over it. The hoodie is causing the t-shirt to slide back on my shoulders and choke me. Am I alone here? Is this another one of those universal mysteries?

Useless? Maybe not...

Don't let it ever be said that I didn't try to teach the world to dig post holes.

Working on a project for my job. Have a post in the works, but I'm trying to save my ass at the moment. Will check in soon I promise. Teaser: backwards, couples, all.