Fruitcake Anyone?

When I was old enough to drive, my dad decided it would be good for me to know how to change the oil in the car. He would take me, and the car, to the garage, show me the tools, and talk me through changing the oil. Replace the filter here, unscrew the oil pan drain thingy. It was all very informative.

Unfortunately, I’m the kind of person that needs to learn from doing. I never did “do”. My dad and I had some real quality time talking cars during those oil changes, but I never did actually learn how to change my oil. Probably wasn’t really the point of the adventure anyway.

Having a blog has been a lot the same experience. I mentioned I was interested, and truely I was, but the next thing I know I have a blog set-up with a link on my browser to it, passwords set. I’d even gotten email from my blog thanking me for establishing it.

I will assure you that the posts have actually been from me. Just in case you’re thinking Toph made those too.

Today when I came in and Toph was moderating my posts, it struck me that having a blog has been a lot like getting the oil changed. It’s not about me learning, it’s about the people in my life trying to take care of me. I can handle that. It’s wonderful to have people who want to make my life more comfortable.

And now that Toph and I have set some boundries, I can relax and enjoy the experience.

Friday, we drove to the farm to celebrate my mom’s birthday. That afternoon, Toph and I decided it was a good weekend to make the trip to Chicago we’d been considering. So, my mom agreed to keep the girls and Lucky Dog, who is technically, a girl.

Saturday morning, my dad, brother, and husband headed off to Cadillac to ice fish. I was going to pick Toph up there about 11am to head back to GR.

Traffic was fine and the roads were good. I made it to the shanty parking about 20 minutes early. I bundled up in my coat, gloves, and sunglasses and girded my proverbial loins for the brisk, i.e. bone chilling walk across the ice to the shanty (114 yards). As I walked along the path, I saw what looked like rather fresh tracks coming in off the lack, but assumed it was just one of the boys needing a pit stop.

The snowmobiles were flying around and I had to watch close to avoid them. Then I encountered two men setting tip ups. They were quite surprised to see someone walking across the lake. They don’t get many pedestrians out there and I sure wasn’t dressed for fishing.

As I got closer to the shanty, I began to feel ominous. The tracks still looked rather fresh, but it was hard to tell, so many tracks mixed together.

Imagine my surprise when I reached the shanty and it was locked. With a padlock. From the outside. I knocked anyway. Of course I knew they couldn’t be in there. But it just seemed impossible that I would walk all the way out there, in the cold, (and I don’t do cold) only to have them elsewhere.

You might be wondering where they might be. I didn’t have to wonder. I’d parked next to the Bronco. I knew they hadn’t left. So, if they hadn’t left and they weren’t in the shanty (and I knew they hadn’t fallen in, the padlock was on the outside), they were in the McDonald’s next to the parking spot warm and comfy and drinking coffee. I didn’t yell. I didn’t kick anything. I didn’t even set the shanty on fire (I didn’t have anything flamable.) Nope. I just turned around and trudged my frozen back side in past the tip ups, through the snowmobile racetrack, and over the hill of snow seperating the parking spot from the McD’s and waved at them through the window.

They assured me that they’d been watching for me. I did drive right past wehre they were sitting. My dad gave me his coffee. My brother gave me his seat. And my husband took me to Chicago.

Gotta say, it’s certainly one of my crazier fishing stories and I didn’t have to kill or skin anything.

Perfectionists and blogs don’t mix. I’ve started so many posts for this, my intial post, and all of them have ended in the virtual trash can. They just all seem so stupid. I used to have the same problem when I tried to write letters.

Who really cares about this stuff, aside from my hubby who can hardly keep from twitching to read what I write. Who wants to know that Nordstrom’s shoe department is a glorious Nirvana? Or that Crate and Barrel had the cutest little flowered glass candle holder. And orange oven mits that I tried desperately to find last summer and NO ONE had. Who cares that I plan my trips to Ikea weeks ahead of time only to get overwhelmed every time I enter the store. I’m going to have to start carrying paper bags to hyperventilate into. And who cares that I walked across the frozen lake (144 yards), to pick up my fishing hubby, only to discover that he, my dad, and brother were not in the shanty.

Now see, there’s something worth blogging about. Ranting might be another word. We’ll see if I can actually make it to the “Submit” button with that one.