Filed under: Misc. Humor, Posts, Travel | Tags: adulthood, Anger Management, family, Fishing, humor, Meditation, Middle-Age, south, southern, sports, subourbonmom, travel
Early morning on Kerr Lake
Fishing, like golf, or the television show Survivor, pares people down to their basic personality traits. Unfortunately like golf and Survivor, it often does this in the company of others; even more often, it does this in the company of good friends or family. This past week, I was with my family on our annual vacation to Kerr Lake, on the border of North Carolina and Virginia. The fishing is never very good (rather, we aren’t ever really good at it), but this year, Hubby decided he was going to embrace fishing like he does everything else—with enthusiasm that is infectious and fun, and with a competitive nature that could turn even the most relaxed morning into a crazed, smack-talking showdown worthy of the WWF.
Every day, Hubby and I rose at 6:00, made coffee, and woke up my brother. It was the highlight of my day, standing at the window, looking out at the mist rising off the water as Hubby, my brother and I did the coffee dance around the spoons, milk, sugar and creamer, all the while trying not to flinch at the open bottles of bourbon and rum sitting on the counter from the night before.
Anticipation.
Calm.
Quiet.
The only sounds outside were the crowing of a rooster nearby and the slapping of our shoes on the dirt path to the dock. Herons let out their primordial screeches as they sought new perches when we intruded. Swirls erupted on the surface of the water.
And the tournament began…
For two days the fishing was good—a few bass, a crappie, a few catfish and a perch. Hubby was thrilled with his catches, and kept a running tally in his head for size, number caught, etc. My brother declared he’d brought prizes for the most fish caught, biggest fish, and a consolation prize. There was a spirited discussion whether the catfish that landed on the dock but jumped off the hook and the dock counted (it did), and whether fish counted if they we were too lazy to learn how to clean them (they didn’t).
So, Hubby and I learned to clean fish.
The last day did not bode well. We were all tied up, and the tension was mounting. Maybe I was tired. Maybe the fishing Gods had had enough of our greed. Maybe it was the rain. Whatever the reason, something inside of me snapped.
First, my brother had a huge fish on his line, reeling it in. His pole was nearly bent in half, and I could see the excitement in his eyes. Just as he got it to the boat, Moby Dick swam underneath it and jumped off. My brother let out a string of curses I’d only ever heard him say in pain or extreme anger. He sat down in misery.
“I can’t believe it got away,” he mumbled. “I can honestly say that was the biggest fish I’ve ever had on my line before.”
A nice sister would have patted his shoulder, said something mildly consoling and kept on fishing, letting him gather up his enthusiasm to continue.
Not me.
“Well, it’s too bad you weren’t man enough to land it,” I said.
Both he and Hubby stared at me in disbelief. I heard what I’d said and couldn’t believe it, either. Who was this person I’d become? I knew neither of them would have ever said the equivalent to me. I apologized and tried to say some platitudes, but they fell flat, and for good reason.
Later, both Hubby and my brother pulled in fish at the same time while I drove, rod cradled in my arm (I still hadn’t even had a nibble). From somewhere deep inside, anger welled up and I snarled, “I hate both of you!” (Okay, there was a curse word in there, too, but I try to keep these clean). Both men turned around and stared at me, probably wondering if I’d been back on the sauce since we went to bed, then went back to landing their fish. For the rest of the day, that phrase was repeated over and over again, sometimes with a shake of the head, sometimes just because they knew I was embarrassed. Gotta love the family.
Usually, fishing calms and soothes me, even when I’m with others. I don’t know what happened that day, but I turned into the John MacEnroe of the bass world. I like to think I was tired, but after realizing that other people’s basic personalities were showcased when they were fishing (my brother is quiet and supportive, Hubby is competitive but fun, both daughters are very empathetic and pleaded to set the fish free), I am beginning to think I’m just not a very nice person.
The others have gone back home, and I’ve just finished cleaning up the house. I think it’s time to go back down to the water and try to recapture the person I used to be when I fished for hours by myself, meditating through the monotony of casting and reeling. There is a time for competition, and I’ll bring it next year, but until then, it’s time to put away the jet ski, grab myself an iced tea and remember why I love the being on the lake so much.
Maybe fishing isn’t a reflection of the person you are. Maybe it’s a reflection of what you’re bringing to the lake when you arrive. Either way, I have some work to do. Whether it’s internal, or my crazy “subourbon” schedule is making crazy, I’m looking forward to my fishing lobotomy.
Filed under: Middle Age, Misc. Humor, Posts | Tags: adulthood, Discovery Channel, family, Girl Code, humor, Middle-Age, My Strange Addiction, Naked and Afraid, news, parenting, southern, southern values, subourbonmom, surviving, teenagers, television
Recently, the news has sounded more like we’re on the cusp of Armageddon than usual. I watch a few days of it, get depressed over all the problems that aren’t getting fixed, and tune in to my standby shows that bring home to me those good ‘ol Southern values and messages I seem to crave: Duck Dynasty (family comes first and iced tea that looks suspiciously like bourbon), Arrow (a hot, I-never-wanted-this, comic book hero saves his city in every episode—courage and humility—did I mention he’s hot?), and The Newsroom (honor and perseverance). I desperately miss The GCB (Good, Christian B*&%$#$), because nobody can put you in your place with a polite, backhanded compliment better than Southern women—the world needs more of that, and less sarcasm.
TI’ve also gotten sucked into survival reality shows because they bring comfort to those of us who might feel a little out of control in this day and age.
Recently, as we were driving to the beach, my mind went right from thinking about Uncle Si (Duck Dynasty’s quirky uncle–everybody’s family has one) to a new show on the Discovery Channel, called Naked and Afraid.
The premise of this show is that a man and a woman trained in survivalist skills are dropped into a difficult climate to survive for 21 days.
Naked.
That’s right, this is on the educational Discovery Channel.
For an hour two naked people schlep through the jungle or desert, trying to protect their private parts while acting like it doesn’t matter. There isn’t any voting off the island, and Jeff Probst isn’t there to heckle them and stir the emotional pot. I like to think of it as Survivor–Light.
I was so distracted by the fuzzed out parts and the fact that I couldn’t see how men would ever win because all their junk is on the outside (and that’s a lot more to protect), that I’m not even sure what actually happened during the episode.
So much for educational television, Discovery Channel. I don’t think I’ll tape that one for my class.
Now, while we are driving on road trips, Hubby and I don’t usually share a lot of our thoughts anymore, because those conversations usually go something like this:
Me: “What are you thinking about?”
Hubby: “Driving. That guy in the black truck just cut me off, so I’m matching his speed.”
(Long pause.) “What about you?”
Me: (Long winded explanation for my train of thought for the last ten minutes.)
This time, I told Hubby what I’d been thinking about and wondered aloud how I got from Duck Dynasty to the whole Naked and Afraid topic. Hubby glanced at me and said, “You just want to see the Duck Dynasty guys naked.”
Eeewwww.
Okay, maybe Jase…ladies, am I wrong?
And it’s not just me.
Daughter #1 has started watching her own teen survivalist show: “Girl Code” (there’s also a “Guy Code,” but I haven’t seen it), in which three or four female actresses and comedians talk about all kinds of topics, from STDs to gossip to trying on bathing suits. The topics may be…low-brow, but the message is usually on target. For example, during the episode on STDs, one girl asked, “How do you stay STD free? Simple: Stop being a ‘Ho on the weekends!”
Not how I would have delivered it, but the message is still the same.
Even Daughter #2 has been watching some version of people just trying to cope in this crazy world. After seeing a show called My Strange Addiction, she told me about a woman who was eating her husband’s ashes, even though she claimed not to like the taste. I’m not even going to take a guess at the psychology behind it, and I won’t crack any of the tasteless jokes that ran through my head, but Daughter #2, ever the existentialist, did come up with a question that made me pause:
“If you eat a dead person’s ashes, do they start missing pieces of themselves in Heaven?”
Naturally, my brain took off and I wondered: If dead people do start missing pieces of themselves in Heaven in a situation like that, what happens to the people who decompose in a coffin? Do their Heavenly counterparts start looking like zombies, with pieces of their face sliding off? Is that where the whole zombie thing comes from? The same question could apply to those victims of cannibalism: would their Heavenly counterparts start missing pieces as their earthly bodies become somebody’s lunch?
Yep, that’s how the conversations in our house sometimes go.
So, maybe turning off the news is a cowardly thing to do, but how else would we have these discussions? I like those types of questions better than, “Mom, why do all the people in the Middle East hate us?”
Filed under: Misc. Humor, Parenting, Posts, Travel | Tags: adulthood, family, farm life, Farming, humor, kids, Marriage, Middle-Age, mom, parenting, snakes, south, southern, teenagers, teens, travel
Nephew #1 Dangling The Snake
Occasionally, events happen that can make you re-think the roles you play in your marriage. In our house, all things accounting (see my previous blog: https://subourbonmom.wordpress.com/2012/10/09/redundies/), mechanical and packing-related fall to Hubby; most things domestic, flowers and shrubs, and cleaning up pet poop, vomit and carcasses (https://subourbonmom.wordpress.com/2012/10/26/chipmunk-popsicle/ ) fall to me. There was one category that fell to me by default, not because I necessarily am good at handling them, but because I was more familiar with them:
Snakes.
Hubby grew up in Bermuda, where there are no snakes, except for the occasional gardener that snuck in via a tourist’s golf bag. He has always had a healthy appreciation for them, and has never failed to rapidly remove himself from any uncontrolled snake situation. In fact, when I was very pregnant with Daughter #2, Hubby saw a snake dropping from my brother’s gutters, and in a moment of animal instinct, he jumped behind me (I like to say he threw me in front of him). For years this has been a family joke, which he good-naturedly took on the chin.
Oh, but that was about to change…
Yesterday, we took a trip to see the in-laws on their beautiful horse farm in Virginia. Various nieces, nephews and grand-nieces were there, all running about the place, kicking soccer balls, exploring the barns and generally causing mayhem everywhere they went. Around Happy Hour, as the adults were slowing down and the thought of a nice cool drink was sifting through our humidified brains, someone came rushing in to inform us there was a huge black snake in the tree outside. Of course, being the suburbanites we are, we flocked around to look at the rare (to us) creature of the wilderness.
Sure enough, curled up in the crook of a giant old beech tree was a black snake. We could just see a few inches of its body, and it was definitely in the “bigger-than-I-want-to-get-close-to” category. Nephew #1 (the oldest at 16, and who lives on the farm), had a cast on his arm, but decided to scale the tree anyway and (what else?)…poke it with a stick.
Like a group of tourists watching a Bedouin snake charmer, we took videos and pictures with our cell phones. We gasped and shrieked as the harmless snake lifted its head and glared at Nephew #1. The smaller nieces were shooed away to the patio.
As Nephew #1 pushed and prodded the snake out of the tree, Nephew #4 (age 9, who also lives on the farm) stood beneath the tree, hoping to catch it by its tail as it dropped. The snake finally gave up its Happy Hour hiding place (which happened to be filled with water—he’s definitely related to us) and dropped to the ground.
Now, I’m not proud of this—in fact, I’m pretty mortified: as the snake hit the ground, I pushed Daughter #2 in front of me and ran to the patio with the little ones—just like Hubby had done to me 13 years ago.
That’s right. I pushed my own child in the potential path of a snake so that I could get away. Way to go, Mom—excellent parenting.
In the mayhem that followed, Nephew #1 grabbed the snake by its tail, letting it dangle for a while so we could all get a good view. Eventually, Nephew #4 draped the snake over his shoulders and took it to another part of the yard, away from the timid city-folk.
With the excitement over, it was soon time to go. On the way home, I told Hubby I would never, EVER, make fun of him for shoving me into harm’s way over a snake again. But I think Daughter #1 said it best. As we pulled out of the driveway, and it was quiet for a moment, her matter-of-fact teenage voice came from the back seat:
“We are not farm people.”
Subourbon Mom 