Big Mama

Christopher obviously found his "other fish in the sea".

Only he wasn't fishing in the sea.

And he wasn't looking for another fish...right, babe? RIGHT BABE? ;)

He certainly doesn't know how to treat a lady, that's all I can say. He dumped her right back in Flaming Gorge where he found her. Apparently, one bloated belly woman is enough for him.

Phew.

Congrats on the biggest (and only) catch of the

Annual Testosterone Extravaganza at Flaming Gorge!

(Note: This little beaut was 21 pounds, just for the record. I know you wanted me to post that, Chrisotpher...)

(Another Note: So maybe the fish wasn't exactly a girl, but I figured she LOOKED kind of girly for a fish...something about her lips....)

Loveys

Just three of my latest Loveys (meaning things I can't get enough of):

The only reality TV show in which I would ever consider participating. LOVE it...


I can do anything with spray paint--and I have.

There aren't enough watermelons in the world to keep my family's appetite satisfied.

Sugarloafers a'Loafin'

Welcome to your first glimpse into the most dominant, elite group found in human kind.

You've probably heard of them.

Sugarloafers ring a bell?

Yeah, I thought so. You'll find them at the top rung of the Human Race ladder, followed not-so-closely by the Bayhillers.

(I'd like to take a moment to dedicate this post to all my Bayhiller friends a couple rungs down who may not be my friends after this...)

The following photo documentation captures the most recent gathering of this exclusive group.Our rising generation of Sugarloafers.

A physical manifestation of the fun that is Sugarloaf.

Our attempts to reach out to other superior races.
Attentive Sugarloafer Youth showing great interest in his Elders' endeavors.
A demonstration of the sharing attitude among Sugarloafers.


A Bayhiller and her young auditioning for the part of Sugarloafer.

A Sugarloafer mother enjoying the ambiance naturally created by fellow Sugarloafers.

An on-so- happy Sugarloafer couple.

Typical Sugarloafer delicacies which include an abundance of watermelon, various barbecued meats and, of course, shaved ice provided by Box and Cox Snow Shox (thanks, Nicole and Jake. I think it's official).

Shower Yearn (or Girl's Camp 2008)

One never knows what might be lurking in the wilderness.

During Girl's Camp, I discovered firsthand the intriguing--and at times, dangerous-- specimens awaiting an Anti-Camper.

Luckily, I narrowly managed to snap a few photos of the oddities I unearthed during my 4 day stay in the badlands.

#1: Crazed YW leaders lookin' for a fight.

#2: Vicious Canoe Tippers gloating in yet another water logging of 3 unsuspecting teenage girls

#3: Miss Tibblefork Mermaid Pageant
hopefuls
#4: Underwear on a stick

#5: (Pause for roaring laughter......sorry, can't quit laughing...........)

#6: Exotic tribal beauties
#7: Flute whittling turned bloody
(Yazmeen, I told you to whittle a trumpet...)
#8: Pervert, shirt-diving moths and degrading caste system games (Scum)

#9: Savages...lots and lots of savages

#10: Egg laying elephants on nests

**Due to its graphic nature, a rare survival photo of the Anti-Camper 7 months pregnant, running on 5 total hours of sleep in a -10 degree tent and non-showered for 4 days, will not be shown.

BEHOLD THE HOTEL KEY: HOLY GRAIL OF THE ANTI-CAMPER

I am suffering from horrifying nightmares as of late. They feature frightening visuals like this:

And this: This:

And, horror of horrors, THIS: I am left but a shell after the emotional drain such formidable prospects create. Give me gnarly monsters or free-falls off cliffs. Give me an aggravated assailant, but Maker of Nightmares, take away the fearful images accosting me!

These nightmares can only mean one thing:

Girls Camp is near. Very, very near.

Ahhh!!

(Where, oh where, is my blasted hotel key?)

The very “C” word is a slur to my ears, an offensive cuss word spoken with utter carelessness.

If any of my dear readers are in the least “campy campy”, I apologize beforehand, but there are some eternal truths associated with…well, you know.

(Again I say, WHERE, OH WHERE, is that blasted hotel key?)

When one WILLFULLY and/or JOYFULLY chooses to embark on an adventure of the “C” word nature, the following are ALL ABSOLUTELY TRUE:

Truth #1: You are mocking the genius that is electricity, indoor plumbing and HVAC. Go ahead, slap Thomas Edison’s face and tell him you still feel good about sleeping in the wilderness.

Truth #2: You obviously don't read the Bear Community Newsletter. If you haven't already, it's time to sign up for their mailing list. Last month’s newsletter discussed the various pros and cons of eating chubby versus skinny humans. Too gruesome for you? Yeah, well, you should have read their April newsletter which featured favorite recipes from prominent people-eaters around the forest.

Truth #3: You are endorsing bad hygiene. Outwardly showcasing the joys of non-teeth brushing, non-showering, non-deodorant wearing, dirt-rolling behaviors. You are sorely afflicted with a psychosis of the worst kind.

Truth #4: You are voluntarily offering yourself as a buffet for the mosquitoes, thus ensuring their survival for another season.

Truth #5: You are openly acknowledging that you enjoy strange bumps and rashes on unmentionable parts of your body. And that you prefer not knowing where they came from.

Truth #6: You prefer the smell of dirty canvas dirt-infested flannel to fresh sheets.

Truth #7: You think dirt underneath your fingernails must surely be a sign of ruggedness.

Truth #8: The grittiness of dirt in your teeth makes you feel alive.

Truth #9: You are hospitable toward campfires and enjoy offering your hair and skin as a nest for the nauseating smells emitting therefrom.

Truth #10: You find packing up your entire house in backpacks and duffel bags, loading it in a large truck or trailer, wrestling with a tent, searching for and hauling wood and water, cooking dusty food on a single burner stove that reeks of propane, using a hole as a bathroom (consequently providing entertainment for woodland creatures) and sleeping in a drafty, smelly, drippy canvas house, relaxing and invigorating. And then you especially like the part where you come home, drop the dirty backpacks and duffel bags on your nice, clean floor, unload your entire house, put it back in its proper place, wash all the laundry, scrub in the shower for an hour to get the dirt out of creases and comb foliage and mud balls out of your hair. Oh, and then vacuum and Febreeze your car. Yeah....THAT is fun.

In addition to my hotel key, does anyone know where I might find the Fast Forward button that makes it Friday afternoon, meaning Post Girls Camp, Post-Wilderness Experience, Post-Warm, Cleansing Shower and Hearty Welcome Back to Civilization?

If not, dirt, grime and grease, here comes the Anti-Camper...

Knitted Vests in Bangladesh

Despite what you may think, Jason Bourne is not running from the enemy. He's not running from terrorists or blood-thirsty power mongers or maniacal foreign assassins.

Look closely at the panic on his face.

Such an expression is caused by something much more frightening than the previously mentioned threats.
It's actually impressive that he's so calm, cool and collected, given the circumstances.

"WHAT CIRCUMSTANCES?" you ask in curious, breathless anticipation.

His TEN YEAR HIGH SCHOOL REUNION.

THAT is what he's running from.

THAT is why Jason Bourne entered the CIA and dropped off the map.

And THAT is why I'm entering the Witness Protection Program--and, just to cover the bases, applying to the Central Intelligence Agency for dangerous missions and obscure job locations.

The only problem is I didn't enter the Program early enough and my CIA application is pending.

"They" found me.

And then they contacted me.

And then....I actually attended my 10-year reunion.

!!!!!

I could have endured brainwashing, torturous behavior modification techniques, a six-month disappearing act, secret ops and dangerous weapons shoved in my face. I could have endured a life of secrecy and anonymity, a complete overhaul of me as I know me....

ANY of the above, but NOT the Reunion.

Now, take another look at Jason's face. Do you detect even the smallest trace of panic?

Nope. Gone.

You know WHY?

He evaded the Reunion and as a result, moves forward with peace of mind, knowing he didn't waste a perfectly good Saturday night.

The threat is gone...at least for another 10 years.

Okay, okay. So my reunion wasn't THAT bad. Really. I'm taking a bit of dramatic license. I saw quite a few people that I was delighted to see. (And didn't recognize quite a few more--ten years is a long time in terms of hair color, style and amount...)

However, it does go in my

"Kind of a Waste of Time" Life Experiences pile.

High school was fun enough, I suppose. I was highly involved, had lots of good friends, successfully passed notes undetected and only tripped in the halls once--all of the things that make a memorable, worthwhile high school career.

But REALLY, let's be honest...life began in college. :)

*That's when people started talking to each other without first asking for social credentials, which table you sat at during lunch and if you were ever in band or dated anyone in said organization.

*That's when it suddenly became normal and highly acceptable to date a guy with a beat-up car. (You were just glad he had a car so as not to walk everywhere when you went out.)

* That's when maturity became relative.

**That's when if you decided to knit and wear your own vests, people recognized it as artistic expression and placed their orders. (Note: I don't actually know how to knit, so please don't place online orders. Also,I don't care for vests as a result of the 80s, but would endorse anyone wearing such a creation.)

Anyway, you get what I'm saying.

Anyone who ever participated in high school knows exactly what I'm talking about.

And that's why I can say "Check" to my 10- YEAR REUNION

and

"Pass" to my twentieth. :)

Besides, no one will be able to find me. I'll be non-existent in Bangladesh. (With Jason Bourne? Hubba hubba.)**

** ONLY KIDDING. That was for you, babe! :)

Traitor Belly Buttons

I am desperate.

I have adopted drastic measures to which I never thought I would resort.

Brace yourselves because...I am a Stork Stalker.

Let me explain.

I can't help it. My belly has overtaken my entire body and I am left a helpless victim under its seizure. Apparently, my Belly is my new boss.

I no longer have control of my vertical balance. At any moment, I could topple forward from the weight of The Bump. I addressed the matter with said belly. Its solution? To push my backside out equally as far as my belly to create better equilibrium. I now have two large bumps--one on the front and one on the back. Thanks.


Swimming is nigh unto impossible--I am but a flotaition device. Don't worry, though...the Belly compensated for this also. It made me so unattractive in a swimsuit that I have no desire to step foot in even the smallest of puddles. Problem solved.


I feared lest my good friend, Belly Button, would disappear forever, but The Belly Boss oh-so-generously assured me I had at least a solid 2 weeks to keep my friend around.

TWO WEEKS?

Belly Boss then informed me It had given Belly Button an all-expenses paid vacation to the Bahamas for a few months.

And Belly Button took it graciously. He said he had been feeling "stretched thin" lately. (Sorry...couldn't resist.)

Belly Buttons are traitors.

I AM NOTHING BUT A NEARLY-BELLY-BUTTONLESS BELLY. A BOSSY,GREEDY, SPACE-HOARDING BELLY WITH HORRIBLE ATTEMPTS AT COMPENSATION AND FAIRNESS TO MY SKELETAL SYSTEM.

This invasion has left me crying out, "Stork, WHERE ARE YOU? HERE, STORKY, STORKY!"

And, you see, that's why I became a Stork Stalker.

I tracked him down in a tropical clime and shot this photo just before he jumped in for a refreshing swim.

I entreated him to come out of retirement and resume his duties as a Baby Bringer. I showed him this photo of himself years ago, in hopes it would persuade him to take pity on pregnant women worldwide.

He enjoyed a nostalgic moment and then politely declined, informing me that inflation was a real drag on his paycheck and his hearing had suffered from years of screaming babies.

When I asked him if I could somehow entice him to just deliver my next kid, he laughed and said, "If your next kid is big like your last kid, I'd suggest UPS Ground." He claims he's "getting up there" in years and his beak muscles aren't really up to it.

So I'm forming a coalition to Bring Back Stork. There's got to be SOME stork SOMEWHERE that is interested in the career for which they were intended, their very calling in life...

I'll find sponsors, I'll give the stork free stuff. I'll transorm my backyard into a Stork Paradise free of rent and HOA fees, for crying out loud!

Would ONE of them just PLEASE STOP THE BELLY INVASIONS!