This week has been both strange and wonderful. And both of those words describe Saturday, in which I drove up my street after getting my car washed and was greeted by Mopie’s parents in my driveway. Mopie’s dad pulled his wife out of the way, as though he were seriously concerned that I would plow over any pedestrians with the Chrysler, which is when I realized that yes, we were going to be in for a delightful day.
Mopie and her Mumsy and Popsicle climbed into my car and we were off to the wilds of Door County, where I regaled them with tales of Wisconsin and we played one of my favorite games in wildlife spotting: find the wild turkeys. You see, there are often wild turkeys in Door County, and if you’re paying attention in the fields, you’ll see them, usually a flock of six or eight, trucking along and doing whatever the hell turkeys do. I don’t know. I like turkeys though. They are funny-assed birds. I’ll bet they take themselves too seriously. They are the middle-managers of bird culture.
However, Clan Pie was denied turkeys, and then, when we stopped at Al Johnson’s, they were denied goats on the roof too. It was too early in the season for the goats, apparently, which led to many speculations about the goats and also turkeys. Where could the turkeys be? With the goats? Were the goats somehow in cahoots with the turkeys? (Goats are, after all, the cahooting type, whereas turkeys will take no candle to cahooting, for they are late for a conference call and still have to finish their Powerpoint decks) (When did ‘deck’ become the new hip corporate slang for ‘Powerpoint Presentation’? I want to come up with new corporate slang like ‘Cubby Vultures’ (those people who scavenge for office supplies when someone quits or gets fired) (because I clearly can’t get past the vulture thing), but that would involve thinking about my day job too much and that’s the last thing I want to do) (unless it’s thinking up ways to annoy the Annoying Coworker, which is just sort of fun) (In my freelance thing, I use ‘graph’ instead of ‘paragraph’ a lot, but there, ‘deck’ means something else entirely. Which just confuses the poor vocabulary centers of my brain, where they are still trying to sort out the difference between a cravat and an ascot.)
(Your yearly dose of parens in one neat tidy serving (ok, I do sort of admire it when the entry becomes an algebraic equation of words))
After many bottles of wine were purchased and lighthouses were spotted and cheeses were sampled, we drove back down in the quiet lull that happens after a very full day, and Pie was being sympathetic about the lack of turkeys. She had just said the questionably comforting sentiment ‘Maybe the turkeys died.’ when I suddenly pulled the car to the side of the road, pointed like a fucking bird dog and exclaimed ‘Turkeys!’ And there they were, six turkeys walking their little turkey walk through a freshly churned field, probably after a rumored doughnut sighting in a nearby conference room. You really had to admire them for their sense of drama, because really, they waited until the last possible second to make their entrance.
They seemed to have fun, and I had fun with them. I hope that Mopie had fun too, even though we pretty much did the exact same things we did last time we went to Door County during the fall. Apparently, Mopie’s parents expected her to know as much about Wisconsin trivia as I do, and kept asking her obscure questions like what the Wisconsin state flag looked like and what kind of things farmers keep inside silos. Poor Mopie. By the end of their visit with us, they unofficially adopted me. And gave me a turkey decoy.
To put in my yard, you know. To attract all the turkeys.
I have to admit, it is truly an appropriate and ingenious gift. Because I do like me some wild turkeys. Which when I was relaying the story to Jake, he thought I meant the inexpensive hooch. He asked if I was going to put Wild Turkey out in my yard to attract bums, and I replied ‘No, that would only attract my mom.’ I am such a bad daughter that I don’t deserve to be an adopted by the Pie family.
When I’ve had practically any amount of alcohol, the first hint that it is taking affect is the way I talk. Not only does my Wisconsin accent pop out and accentuate any long vowels (I’m not fit to drive a car the minute that the word ‘No’ mutates into ‘Noooooah!’) but at some point, I start to talk like a duck. Specifically Daffy. People tell me that I sound entirely normal, but I know the truth. I have a tiny bar of wire glued to the back of my lower teeth. It’s been there for sixteen years and I hate it. Not only does it make flossing an absolute pain in the ass and give me cancer sores, but it also gives me a very tiny lisp. I try to keep it under control most of the time, but it slips out when I get angry, tired or even slightly tipsy.
We recorded a segment on the podcast that La Wade is masterminding (and which also features Fu and Shannon and just a tease of Iggy) titled ‘3 Fast, 3 Furious’ last week. We relayed some more anecdotes about our weekend with Pie’s parents. And on this podcast, we had just finished live blogging Idol, which means that we were on our second bottle of wine and were, well, relaxed (unlike my first ever podcast appearance of the week, in which we drunk dialed Kim of Fresh Hell and I screamed into the phone that I wanted to cut her. Oh the shame. That is the difference between the beginning of the second bottle and finishing the third). And immediately, all that I can focus upon is the little girly lisp. Minuteth. Thith weekend. Podcatht. Inthane. Vanilla thwirl.
And I decided that I had had it. Enough of the stupid retainer. I have asked the dentist about removing it every year for the last several years, and he always warns me about teeth crowding and my small mouth (no, really) and shakes his head that doom, DOOM will befall my mouth if I yank the glorified paper clip out.
But fuck it. It’s my mouth. If I don’t want it anymore, I don’t have to have it anymore. If the dentist is really worried about my teeth moving, make me a muthafucking removable retainer, bitch.
Yes, I’m totally going to call him a bitch. Just watch.
Anyway, go check out the two very excellent podcasts. Your life will be better for it as they are thpectacular.
