Walloon, Walloon, Walloon........

http://www.nytimes.com/2010/05/23/t-magazine/23talk-michigan-t.html

Ahhhh, the link so nice I posted it twice. The town referenced in that fancified, city-slicker of a newspaper, Petoskey, is the home of Walloon Lake. Walloon Lake is a pretty significant place in my life because for at least a third of my life it's been the Up North HQ for my family. Flashback to to the early 90's. We're Up North, happily ensconced in pretty swank digs on Lake Charlevoix. Mom nervously announces that "Dad has bought something". Oh God. Judging from the way her eyes are darting about the room, I'm pretty sure it's not a La-Z-Boy with cupholders. Well, it seems that dad has bought a cottage. On WALLOON. While scant miles away it had always seemed a world apart from what I had known on the shores of Charlevoix. So close but oh so far. There are Charlevoix people and there are Walloon people. There are also Harbor people but we won't get into that today. I always thought I was a Hatfield but I was being told I was now a McCoy. My reaction? "DAD DID WHAT?????!!!!!!" I mustered the self-righteous indignation of one who has paid absolutely nothing for the lifelong privilege of vacationing in a pretty freakin' sweet spot and crossed my arms and probably said something like, "FINE but don't expect ME to show up". This likely was followed by a "Hmmph" and double foot-stomp. In my mind, Wallooners were a different breed. Clannish and mysterious. Even though my parents had belonged to the Walloon Lake Country Club for many years, I always felt like an outsider. Probably because I was. Most of the denizens of the lake and the cottages they belong to go back generations. It's not at all uncommon to see four generations of a family eating together at the club. Shit, we've got three and and in the grand scheme of things, we're newbies. Anyway, the first time I went to inspect this acquisition, armed with a whole lot of doubt and a horrible attitude, I was sufficiently horrified. Although beautifully situated on Birch Point, a treed peninsula that juts out into the lake almost like an island, this thing was a cottage. And not a cute cottage either. Kind of a dumpy cottage that was built in the 1930's and added onto. Badly. There were some cool things about it. Actual linoleum from the 1950's and old fashioned appliances that were kitschy cool and appealed to my design school sensibilities. And there was a whole lot of really sweet knotty pine. There were also some very UN-COOL things as well. Like the fact that the washing machine was oh, I don't know......IN THE KITCHEN???? This in and of itself was bad enough. But wait for it. The dryer? IN THE GARAGE. That's right. Cue the chickens, banjos and corncob pipes. Oh, and upstairs? Where I was to sleep? Two little rooms you had to duck to get into. And that had vinyl floors. And 70's paneling. With tinfoil balls wadded up and stuffed into holes in the walls. Keep in mind that at this point in time I was in my twenties and had not yet been beaten down by the world. I was still laboring under the impression that the universe (and my parents!) owed me something. Something WAY better than this. Well, my friends.......I have never, EVER been more wrong about something in my life. That little cottage and more importantly, the land it sat upon became a refuge for me. It's long been scraped and replaced with something a little more up to date but the place remains the same. It has nearly magical properties. Everyone who sets foot on the Point is entranced. They can't help but be. It's been close to eighteen years since I rolled up that dirt driveway for the first time. A lot has changed. Especially me. But the lake has not. I can stand and look out at the Narrows (see conveniently posted photo.....you're welcome) and it's the same view the Ottawa had when they used Birch Point as their summer campground. It's the same view a young Ernest Hemingway had as he paddled his boat through the waters of his childhood, forging the memories from which the Nick Adam's stories were conceived. It's also the same view my two-week old baby boy had for the very first time in July of 1999. "Jack, Walloon. Walloon, Jack. You guys are going to have a beautiful friendship". It's the view he's seen every summer since when I take him over to the club in the little Whaler for camp. As an interesting aside, that is the only boat I am allowed to pilot, even at my advanced age. My dad, it seems has never really gotten over the two car accidents I got into the day I got my license. He's got quite the memory, that one. Particularly when the incident in question resulted in an expenditure of money. I think even dad would admit however, that some things are more important than money (that loud thump reverberating across the nation was likely my dad falling over when he read that line). Like time spent together. And memories. Faithful companions no longer with us spent hours upon hours paddling around that lake, little black head perched just above the water. And working up a mighty fine stench that is seared into our collective olfactory memories. Little ones sat in baby pools under hundred-year old trees because they were too little to really get in the lake. My nephew, who is now about to be a junior at the University of Michigan, stood on the terrace wall and sang songs about poopy pants or some such thing. He was 16. I'm joking. He was like four. I've even planned my funeral which involves being shot out of a cannon and into the lake. After I'm dead of course. The cannon is not involved in my demise. I've shed tears of laughter and of grief in this place. I've devoured countless books here and hatched a million money making schemes. I've also consumed countless cocktails with my dad. Many have been the late afternoon when an exasperated Rose has tried to drag the two of us off of the porch/terrace/dock in an attempt to get us to dinner. When you're solving the problems of the world while looking out on Walloon Lake, dinner doesn't much matter. We can eat when we're dead. Reference cannon. Like I said in my previous post, I'll be up there in a little less than two weeks. My dad called the other day while I was out walking. Dad: "GOOBLER!!!!! I was sitting on the porch last night and having a drink and your chair was just sitting there, flapping in the breeze. When ya getting here?" Not soon enough Dad.......not soon enough. 

http://www.nytimes.com/2010/05/23/t-magazine/23talk-michigan-t.html?pagewanted=1&adxnnl=1&adxnnlx=1274450407-Q6pfADcc831S9djzkycuaw

I received a phone call from my mom the other day. Well, I receive phone calls from my mom most days but she sounded particularly excited when I picked up the phone on this occasion. "GOOBIE!!!! Some famous author wrote about Petoskey in the NEW YORK TIMES!!!!!!". While normally this level of excitement involves a birdy at the local country club, this was something I was actually interested in. I LOVE what we Michiganders refer to as "Up North". "Up North" means something different to everyone as our experiences are surely unique. And "Up North" is a big place. I'm not really sure where it starts exactly but if you've been lucky enough to grow up spending summers there, you know it's that point at which the trees start getting a little thicker and the traffic lesser and lesser (unless it's on a Friday or Sunday) and you just feel "it". For me, it's the northwestern portion of the state. From the time I was a baby until around the time I was married, my family was varying parts of Lake Charlevoix. Lake Charlevoix is a pretty damn big body of water that connects by waterway to the "big lake" or Lake Michigan. It's anchored by a very quaint town called, duh, Charlevoix. The streets are lined with pink, white and purple petunias and there is a draw bridge that snarls traffic every hour as the boats with big masts make their way out to what is essentially sea. People that aren't familiar with the Great Lakes don't really get how vast they are. Inland oceans, really. I remember taking our boat out into the big lake once and not getting very far. Not much past the lighthouse I remember looking around and thinking, "Oh shit" and turning around. The town of Charlevoix is really a little strip of shops (fudge and t-shirt shops interspersed with high-end boutiques and restaurants) surrounded by water on both sides. Big ass yachts are moored next to little tiny boats in Round Lake which is the harbor. Some things have changed since I was a little kid in Charlevoix. The fish ponds with islands of petunias are no longer in the park and the dime store next to Oleson's where we used to stock up on rainy day crafts is no longer there. The trestle where my dad used to take my brother and I fishing FAR too early in the morning is long gone. What I love is what has NOT changed. Rexall's still sits exactly where it did when I was four years old, it's orange sign standing in defiance to all that has disappeared around it. And the cool thing is that it's exactly the same inside. Magazines and post cards and polished Petoskey stones mingle with typical drug store shit. It's living nostalgia, at least for me. There's also the completely unique sound of your tires going over the drawbridge that is just so damn "up north". Love that sound. At some point in young adulthood, my parents ended up buying a place on the other end of Lake Charlevoix. This was cool with me as my friends and I could all walk into Boyne City and party it up. I remember being outraged at having to pay $12 for a pitcher of beer at the Sportsman's Lounge while we watched the Jelly Roll Blues Band. I also remember my brother saying, "If Mollie's drinking, everybody's drinking" which was true. I was the one with the job for one brief shining moment in time. I also remember many cold, cold winter nights making our way back to the Harborage, swaying merrily through the snow when the party was over.  We weren't just summer people........we were the real deal. Up North every chance we could get. I'm heading up in less than two weeks. Slightly different destination.  I'll tell ya about the Walloon years in my next entry. Dave has informed me that I'm not writing a freakin' novel and that I should keep my entries short. But I have so much to say!!!!! Damn it.  Stay tuned 'cause while the Lake Charlevoix years were sickly sweet with childhood memories, the Petoskey/Walloon years are still going on. And THAT my friend, is where I dangled precariously from a boat cleat by my thong, where I've fallen off innumerable docks, and where my dad stormed around to the back of the cottage and busted my mom and I for smoking back in the day. I believe his exact quote was, "What are you two idiots doing?" Uh.....smoking?  Clearly??? Most of the good stuff has happened on Walloon, which is conveniently pictured at the top of this entry as I really didn't intend to write about Lake Charlevoix. I have ADHD, remember. Tangents. I go off on 'em. The whole New York Times article will make sense in my next series of Deep Thoughts so work with me, people.  

Wedding Tales

I am BACK from Arizona. Lots of stories. Where do I start? Jack puking on the plane? My boob popping out at the reception? Hmmmm. I'll just begin at the beginning. Logical. What's that you say? I'm about the most illogical person you've ever come across? Every dog has his day. Except Grady. He chews days up and spits them up just like everything else. Sometimes he craps things up. But I digress. The wedding. We had to drop Baby Grades off at my brother and sister-in-law's house. They are very brave. Although I believe they became a lot less so after finding that we did not bring the shock collar. I believe the exact quote was, "YOU DIDN'T BRING THE SHOCK COLLAR????" Followed by much running around and screaming. It was during this period of time that we decided to sneak out and burn rubber. That task out of the way, we made tracks for the airport. I am the type of person that requires about an hour and a half cushion to travel comfortably. Anything less than that and I tend to freak out. I was trying to be cool and go with the flow and agreed to arriving an hour early. Well, now I remember why I like to have a cushion. You can plan to be an hour early but shit happens. Traffic, rabid dogs, parking lots full, etc. We ended up parking on the opposite side of the terminal from where we were supposed to be. And then we waited for a freaking bus. And waited. And waited. I finally started walking. In heels. I know. They were comfy heels but I had I known I'd be walking THAT much I would have made a better footwear choice. We get into the terminal and check our bag. We're hungry. Dave waits in huge line for McDonald's. Jack and I find a seat. Angry old man takes the one reserved for Dave. Me: "I'm sorry but that seat is taken". Angry Old Man: "Doesn't look taken to me" and plops his angry old ass down. Ummmm, okay. Take food to terminal. We are boarding. Stick chicken sandwich in purse. Jam ourselves (and our delicious fast food) into tiny seats. Short flight, so really no biggie. I have my iPod and all of the deliciously trashy magazines that I only allow myself to read when traveling. TIP: The National Enquirer has the most bomb-diggity crossword puzzle. I like to think of myself as pretty smart (I'm really not.....I just like to think of myself that way) and it challenges my ass and whiles away the time. So, la, la, la........my blood pressure is slowly going down. Until we're about to land. The last flight we took was in April. Jack threw up on decent. Thought it was just a fluke. Apparently not. He threw up again. Poor guy. Fortunately it smelled like Happy Meal so noone was the wiser. Not sure what's up with that as he's been flying since he was an infant without incident. So that raised the stress level up again. Covered vomit with Enquirer (which has much better absorbing properties than glossies) and informed flight attendant who was actually pretty cool about it. Probably 'cause she didn't have to clean it up. Walk my blistery feet to baggage. Dave calls his brother Skippy who is supposed to pick us up. He's not there. He's just getting on the highway. Oh dear. Sit down and wait. He finally gets there. My mother-in-law, AKA Mother Bradford is with him. Get in car. Head to accommodations. Arrive. We have three rooms. One is Mother B's and her husband Bill's. One is for Skippy and Dave's dad, AKA Grandpa C (who has not yet arrived.....more on THAT later) and one for me, Dave and Jack. At this point, I really, really just want to sit down and chill out for a sec. Guess what????? Two of the three rooms are ready. Ours is not one of them. I ADORE Dave's family. They are hella cool. But they are "go with the flow" sorts. I am not. I don't do flow. I am staunchly against it. I'm more of the "immovable wall" sort. We keep calling and they keep telling us that our room is not ready yet. At a certain point, we went down and asked that they just give us ANY room. Which they did. Not sure why they didn't figure that one out an HOUR ago. Get to room. Promptly break down in tears. Husband looks horrified. Husband pours drink. For both of us. Start to feel a little better. Go out for dinner at Mexican place. Margaritas. Feeling MUCH better. Come back to hotel room and am pretty beat and want to go to bed. Family has gathered in our room. That's cool. Crawl in bed and throw covers over head. Wake up the next morning and find out that wedding is not until 5 o' clock. Wonder what in the flying fuck we are going to do all day. Day is saved by mall. With Nordstrom. Yay. Go back to hotel buttressed by a healthy dose of retail therapy. Get ready for wedding. Am wearing silk pants and a one-shouldered top. This becomes relevant later. Ceremony is lovely. I actually cried a little. The groom is my nephew (Dave's side) and I've known him since he was a six-year old spoiled little shit that kicked me in the shins. If he didn't turn out to be such a cool dude I would have held a grudge. It was really sweet. Lotsa love. Go on to the reception. Beautiful room and tastefully done. Lots of cool people. Lots of cool DRUNK people. Myself amongst them. All I know is that my son is a dancing machine. He even came up with a line......"The dance machine is out of order, please insert another quarter". Touche. Oh, and my brother-in-law is really popular. Ladies LOVE a gay man. Ooopsie......did I just out you Skippy???? No?  Didn't think so. I adore him. He was my therapy human this weekend. We considered giving him a yellow vest that says, "Please Do Not Pet Me.....I Am Working". We danced and danced and drank and drank. At one point, Skippy grabbed my boob. He said it has magical healing properties. For some reason, gay men grabbing your boob is perfectly acceptable. What was not was when my BOOB POPPED OUT OF MY TOP. TWICE. Double oopsie. Well, really single as it was just one boob. Twice. I really didn't care. It's just a boob. Get back to hotel room. As Dave said the next day, "I wrestled my mother into her room, walked into Skippy's and he was sunny side down. Walked into ours and you were too". All's well that ends sunny side down in my book. Lots more to tell but having been gone all weekend, I need to get my shit together. Will report back later. 

I am going to a wedding this weekend. What is strange about that is that I haven't been to one in a long time. You have that initial flurry of everybody getting married in their mid-twenties through mid-thirties and then it's all about the babies. I have a strange suspicion however that a new flurry is about to start up. Second marriages. I am seeing unions dropping like freaking flies right about now. People in their early forties that are checking out of Marriage Numero Uno. I have heard about THREE couples separating just this week. Not sure what it's about. I think a lot of first marriages are the result of people meeting in college. Which from my vantage point seems pretty damn young. It didn't at the time of course. We were all fucking mature geniuses that knew EVERYTHING. And it must be said that a shit load of water flows under the bridge during the first half of your life. Jobs (well, if you're the job-having sort), kids, buying houses, getting established. That all takes a great deal of attention and teamwork. You're pushing a big-ass rock uphill together by necessity. As time goes by, the rock either changes or becomes smaller or splits apart and eventually you may find that either one of you is pushing less hard or you are pushing different rocks altogether. Or you're both just suffering from rock pushing fatigue and have checked out altogether. That's the only way I can explain why all of a sudden all of these seemingly strong marriages are coming apart at the seams. Shit, look at Al and Tipper! Forty years! Although I have long maintained that Al is gayer than gay. Forty years is a long time to be a beard. I mean, we all saw the "kiss", right? Gack. NO THANK YOU. But Big Gay Al notwithstanding, it really does seem epidemic right now. They always said that 50% of marriages end in divorce. That seems about right from what I'm seeing, and maybe even a little light. That being said, there are marriages that make it. I don't want to go into this weekend casting a negative light on two DARLING kids that are in L-O-V-E. It's pretty cute. And hopeful. There are marriages that work. My own dear parents have been married for nearly 44 years. As I'm fairly certain my dad is not gay I'm pretty sure they will stay that way. I would bet the family farm on the fact that my mom will never hear my dad say, "Rose.....I've got something to tell you. I'm gay. That's right......I love men. I'm sorry". It's not to say that there were not big-ass bumps along the way but somehow THEY have not only managed to stay married for all of this time but actually seem to like each other. So maybe there's hope for us all. My parents. Poster children for marriage. Who'd have thunk it? So I salute you, Rose and Bill. And everybody else that is managing to stay married. It ain't for the faint of heart. But much like drinkin', if it was easy, every fool would be doing it.

ADHD

It will come as no great shock to those of you who know me personally or even simply through reading Deep Thoughts that I have been recently diagnosed with ADHD. It seems that it is not unusual for a parent to be diagnosed after their child is. It's kinda occurred to me that I may suffer from this ailment but I never really got around to doing anything about it other than wonder. I probably became distracted by a shiny object or something. Anyway, I have recently been talking to a therapist about some unrelated shit and fairly early on she asked me if I thought I may have ADHD. Something about talking mile a minute about completely disjointed subject matters. Anyway, I took a test and it looks like I've got it. And I've "got it BAD", as my dad would say. Some of the symptoms? Let's see........

*Anxiety. Me? Never.

*Employment problems? Uh......please recall the whole "jobs are for squares" thing. I've never had employment problems per se, I just don't really care for employment. 

*Impulsiveness/lack of filter. I just fell off of my chair.

*Extreme distractibility. Reference lack of "Deep Thoughts" lately.

*Poor organizational skills (home, office, desk or car is extremely messy or cluttered). Okay, there is shit growing in my car, my desk is a study in disorganization and it is very likely that if you open a cabinet in my kitchen, shit will fall and hit you in the head. 

*Constantly losing things. Um, I think I wrote an entire blog about this very thing. Sunglasses, keys, iPhone, purse. I think I've even lost my car once.

*Substance abuse. Bwahahahaha.

*Difficulty paying attention or focusing, such as when reading or when listening to others. I read like crazy if I'm interested in the subject matter. However I am famous for not "RTFB" or "reading the fucking book". This refers to the reading of manuals. I have never, ever read an instruction manual. I'll figure out how things work things on my own before I'll read a manual. Which means I "kinda" know how to work most of my shit. Most of it is probably capable of launching things into space but I have no idea how that would in fact transpire.

So, the bottom line is that I am going to some life-changing meds. Yay. I'll probably be all boring and will no longer have any antics to report. Hmmmm. Not likely.  

Target Practice

I'm pretty sure that I've written about this topic before but it's reared its ugly head again and is such a black (or yellow as the case may be) mark on the Y chromosome that it bears revisiting. I was out on my constitutional walk this morning and ran into a friend of mine. She said, "Hey Mol......I've got something for you to write about on your blog......WHY can't men/boys manage to get their pee into the toilet?" Good question and one I've asked on innumerable occasions as I live with an eleven-year old boy and a 42-year old man. One is no better than the other, so this is not a phenomenon that improves with age. What is so freaking hard about pointing something at a reasonably sized target and firing at close range? Do they completely lose control of their bodies and their wiener is  spraying around like a fire-hose or something? Because in my mind, that's exactly what must transpire for urine to end up not only all over the toilet but the floor and in some cases, the walls. We KNOW it's pee. When your paper towel comes up yellow, the jig is up. One of my male friends said, "Why don't YOU try to pee standing up?" Um, not so much. Sitting down pretty much ensures that my business is going to get where it needs to go. And that's as I like it. I suggest that if you are a boy or a man and cannot control yourself, you have a seat. Gravity will take care of the rest. And if you insist on standing there and the ol' trouser snake is not cooperating then clean up after your bad self. You know, if guys started sitting down when they peed, it would be pretty freakin' funny to go into the bathroom in the middle of the night and leave the toilet seat up. Turn about is fair play. Ahhh, to have Dave experience the ol' midnight dunk tank/ass baptism........precious moments. 

Hellllooooooo!!!!!!

Whoaaaa Nellie. These last couple of weeks o' school are a bit of a bitch. Sorry for the lack of Deep Thoughts. I've been having them but haven't been able to sit still for long enough to jot them down. Today being the last day, things appear to be calming down a bit. Thanks to everybody that wrote to either express concern for my well-being or that of the blog. It's cool that it was missed. I only have a sec as I'm off to get a bikini wax. Can't go to the pool with any lettuce hanging out of the bun. That's unsightly. So were the people at the pool wearing bikinis that probably shouldn't be. Not to mention Speedo man. I'm pretty sure Speedo man doesn't read my blog but if he does, consider this a public service. Anyway, all kinds of hilarity has broken out in the past couple of weeks. I'll leave you with one little gem. I'm driving up to the first of four lacrosse games Jack played in last weekend and he was riding shotgun. Jack: "Hey Mom.....this is the same way we went to the Hidee Mine on our field trip a couple of weeks ago". Me: "Oh yeah? Cool". Nodding head. Mind is elsewhere but don't want to let on. Jack: "They had the sweetest Port-O-Potty ever". Me: "Really?!" Jack: "Yeah.....it was HUGE. It had not just a toilet but two chairs and a table with magazines on it and stuff". Me: "In case you need to take a dump?" Jack: "Oh no.......they had toilet paper too". I almost drove off of the road. Off to the waxing......will report back if anything interesting happens.