Wednesday, March 31, 2010

No one can eat 50 eggs

posted Tue, 29 Aug 2006

The Grand Fish Fry was not the same without the Bodacious Redheaded Pediatrician and her Cheese Guy. They were in North Carolina, of all places, with Cheese Guy’s family. Someone – I won’t name names – said she hoped it would rain on them, but I’m sure that was said in jest. Underneath those words was this sentiment: “How can we possibly have fun without BR-HP and Cheese Guy?” It was the tears of the clown and all that.

But we forged ahead because that’s what we do when we are in northern Wisconsin. We had (other) fish to fry and lots of dessert to eat. It’s not a job for everyone, but we were up to the task.

There was the usual abundance of little kids running around. Only two dogs this time, which was a relief, as I am not a dog lover, although even these two managed to cause trouble far out of proportion to their numbers. One of them threw up right behind the fish-frying kettles in the late afternoon. I asked where the dog’s owner was because to my mind, that was the person who had rightful responsibility of cleaning up the mess. But someone of much higher character than I decided she wasn’t going to wait for the owner to get back from jet-skiing (and maybe she was afraid the other dog would eat the vomit – you never know with these things) and she cleaned it up. Good for her. I didn’t want to have to worry about stepping in that nasty stuff all evening.

No late-night karaoke this year. Another relief. What’s wrong with quiet? Karaoke is fine in its place. But what’s this obsession with noise everywhere? Why do I have to be forced to listen to so-called music everywhere I go? Sorry Angie, but even you admit you only sing as well as Lexie.

The greater question, though, is why do I have to hear music at the airport? Or at the grocery store? If I want music there, I can take my walkman. How about some peace and quiet? This is a subject for another post so I will drop it. But discuss amongst yourselves, dear readers.

The big revelation for everyone, apparently, was that I went to a bar!

Who knew that would be such a big deal?

When I walked into The Big Minnow Bar and Bait Shop late Saturday night, my cousin Bobbie Jo dropped to her knees and clasped her hands in front of her face.

“It’s the end of the world!” she gasped. “I see the cross! I see the blood!”

“What are you talking about?” I snapped at her.

“You walked into a bar! And you’re the first one in the door! You just ruined your image!”

“I didn’t even know I had an image!” I laughed.

So for years, I guess I have been a goody two-shoes rather than someone who gets a bad headache from cigarette smoke and who would rather eat butter and chocolate than waste calories on beer (which tastes nasty anyhow). Who knew?

Sure enough. Sunday morning, when we went back to the lake for breakfast, the first thing my uncle said to me – Bobbie Jo wasn’t even awake yet – was, “I hear you ruined your image last night.”

Good grief. That’s what happens when you live hundreds of miles from your relatives. If only they knew.

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