Around a year ago I had a hysterectomy.
Here is the link to my humorous and sarcastic
and the huge yet humorous
mistake that followed:
Enjoy the archives…and laugh til tears run down your leg! 😉
Sometimes, Saturdays bring a trip to the beach.
I look over and yell,
“Is that a bear?!?!?!?!”
We turn the car around,
drive up slowly,
and I pull out my telephoto lens.
The next shot reveals…
We laugh, and drive away…
very thankful that we decided to wait before calling the County Sheriff’s Office.
Sometimes, Saturday means that I am tired from a long week.
Like a predator stalking its prey, my dog lunges for the door.
I think, “my mad ninja skills will catch the dog and I’ll be a hero”
I reach…and get nothing but tail.
Sometimes, Saturday inspires me to get up
with the sunrise and go fishing.
I roll over and dream about how nice that would be.
Sometimes, Saturday photo reviews have me astounded!
We captured a UFO with our camera?!
Then I realize that it’s a storm cloud and a bumpy car ride…and UFO probably means,
“UnderFilled Oreo (R)”
Maybe I am simply still marveling at why anyone would want thinner cookies,
instead of thicker ones….
Sometimes, Saturday means that I ponder American English.
I understand that I must obey laws, and not do things that are prohibited.
At the hospital, and at medical facilities, I am told to
“void in a cup”.
Other places, though, I read
“VOID WHERE PROHIBITED”
Sometimes Saturday, I snicker over James’ antics.
We were playing a family game recently,
and we were all asked to tell which character in a novel we would like to be.
“Dick, in “See Dick Run” “
That, my dear readers, is the only novel
that my husband could think of.
I laughed until I gasped for air.
Sometimes Saturday…especially as a writer and lover of books,
you simply have no other recourse.
Sometimes, Saturday holds a choice for me.
Do I move the mouse
and put the DVD in so I can work out, or simply continually to
utilize my snazzy
mouse pad as it is?
hmmmm…I posted this, so I guess you can deduce what I did.
Sometimes Saturday finds me contemplating the following:
I have decided that in order to live in the U.P. of Michigan and be a “Yooper”, one has to filled with incredible amounts of courage.
For example, in order to trek from Mackinaw City, MI, one has to drive across the Mackinac Bridge.
When we traveled up north recently, the wind was gusting, and the suspension bridge was swaying.
I was white-knuckling up the bridge’s incline, finally beginning to feel a bit more confident about not plummeting fathoms beneath the bridge to our death in our sedan, when the material under my tires switched from normal road to
It was like driving through an automatic car wash, where the wheels skid ever so slightly back and forth…except I was steering our small car so far above water that I could see it in the distance…through the “road” that was supporting me above said expanse.
We made it across the bridge and were reminded to watch for Moose, Bear, and Deer.
Winters in Michigan are fierce, but in the U.P, they are like winter hurricanes.
Homesteading isn’t a hobby, it’s a basic of survival.
We made the #1 most foolish mistake of a tourist, and accidentally forgot our bug spray in the hotel room.
I am not exaggerating when I say that the mosquitoes are akin to flesh-eating fish in the Amazon…at least not too much exaggerating. 😉
Yoopers have to be courageous in order to face the mosquitoes.
After a few hours of driving, and consuming large amounts of caffeine and water, I really had to find a bathroom.
James continued to tease me that there was always the rustic bathrooms of yesteryear, a.k.a the woods.
I retorted that I have yet to discover a way as a woman that does not include me somehow managing to thoroughly soak my pants and other clothing articles in said rustic bathroom.
After a hike, and my adamant insistence that I would wait for a “proper toilet”, we pulled into a wayside parking lot where I made a mad dash in celebration to a vault toilet.
In hind sight, I should have properly assessed my surroundings.
I should have recalled the courage that it takes to even get to the beautiful home of the Yoopers, let alone the courage that it takes to survive and live in said home.
Instead, I daintily set about placing a semi-protective layer of tissue on the vault seat, and proceeded to attempt the
“Mid-West squatty potty”.
James heard my flabbergasted hollers.
Suffice it to say that in the U.P.,
courage is a commitment and a way of life.
Vault toilets up north are no different.
Say it with me, brave tourists of tomorrow:
“In the U.P.,
COMMIT TO SIT!”