It’s hard to believe, but my blog will be three years old soon. It’s an exciting time in the life of a blog. Now that it’s potty trained and the braces are finally off, little Bloggy is getting ready to take those first big steps out of the internet and into the world of grown up media. He’s got his diagonal striped tie, vintage G.I. Joe lunch pail with drink tumbler, and a very polished 15 second Elevator Speech for why he should be hired. Newspaper editorial pages. Dear Rolling Stone Letters. Junk Mail. There’s so many things my little bloggle might grow up to be.
The two of us were sitting around the house Saturday, looking through our photo albums and reminiscing about all the great times we’ve had together. The House Mouse. Several wombat references. Reginald my Muse. My father and his many jellies. We laughed, we cried, we even cuddled a bit (which is totally acceptable since bloggles are really comfortable with their personal space and not at all emasculated by being Little-Spooned). When we got to a page of photos of me with the Griswold family (NOTE: The name “Griswold” is being used here in place of the real name of the family I’ve found myself surrounded by on more than 7 occasions. Griswolds, you know who you are.), Bloggy’s pointy little pixilated ears pricked up. Somehow, he had never heard about the weekend depicted in the pictures. I think what made him the most upset was the photo of the Gingerbread House Habitat for (Gingerbread) Humanity Renovation Project (More on that later). Bloggy loves frosting.
Realizing that I’d deprived an innocent bloggle of great material, I proceeded to tell him everything. And now, here it is, reproduced, digitally remastered in all its 2.1 stereo sound grandeur! There will be thrills, chills, spills, gills, frills, very few pills, and one sliced baby dill. That’s par for the course when you're with the Griswolds.
The Griswolds are an adventure seeking bunch. No clumping around the TV for them. Not when there’s nature to be conquered! Okay, Okay so SOME clumping occurs between the hours and 7 and 10AM as well as between 7 and 10PM, BUT from 10AM to 7PM they are all action. Clark Griswold, for example, is an accomplished snowshoe stomper and an amateur tobogganer. On a crisp MLK jr. weekend day, he persuaded the other Griswolds and one Me to strap on the deluxe rental snow shoes provided by the base camp of Lars Mountain and follow him deep into its forbidding forests; a terrifying terrain filled with snow-concealed abysses, crags, yetis, and the remains of the camps of failed expeditions to the tippy top of Lars Mountain (a staggering 215 feet above sea level!). Our caravan of explorers shuffled and stomped up and down, around, under and over, through, and all other directions. We came upon the tracks of either ourselves or monsters chasing us several times but fortunately encountered no Abominables, Snow Monsters, Sasquatches (Sasquatchi? Sasqueetches? Sasquapods?), or snow leopards.
One among our party, however, was almost lost to the vicious predatory Cockleburs. These are not Grandma’s Garden Variety, the wild Cocklebur of Lars Mountain has stickers that make Acacia Trees look like Chia Pets. Not only that, they’re carnivores. Like Rabid-and-Lyme-Diseased Wood Ticks carrying tiny steak knifes and just done observing their religious fasting type carnivores. AAAHH! She was able to escape, but only because Cockleburs, being plants, are not particularly bright (No brains. It’s science.) and mistook her scarf for a very long French Bread.
Surviving the Cocklebur attack, our company of adventurers came upon an old and abandoned trapper’s cabin. Legend has it that the trapper was lured to the icy depths of Lake Superior by the haunting call of Gordon Lightfoot’s masterpiece, The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald. According to legend, one that lives on from the Chippewa on down/Of the big lake they call Gitche Gumee/The lake, it is said, never gives up her dead/When the skies of November turn gloomy. The Griswolds and I surmise that the trapper- alone and most likely a bit eccentric given his preference to live alone trapping Cockleburs rather than, say, work in retail at one of the trendy outdoor gear outlet stores, tried to beat Gitche Gumee and find the lost members of the E. Fitz using a Cockle-skin canoe. NOT a reliable nautical vehicle.
Mrs. Griswold challenged me and one of her very fine daughters to race one another in our bathing suits to the hot tub over an obstacle course of black ice, snow tufts, and ogling oglers. Stripped to as bare as we can be without causing parents to cover the eyes of their children and the elderly to shake their canes gingerly and make hoodlum remarks, my Griswold opponent and I charged out into the negative-Celsius weather toward the now capitalized HOT TUB because Holy Hungarian Goulash! It was COLD! Not “oh, I think I’ll put a sweater on, cold” More like So Cold My Innie Belly Buttons Sucked Even Further In To Conserve Body Heat Cold. Yeah, mull over THAT mental image for a bit, a puckering belly button. Eesh, I think I grossed out myself.
You probably know that Lars Mountain has one of the most frighteningly steep luge courses in the world. If not, I recommend going to see it. Don’t ride it, however; survival rates are pretty low and I am not into endangering my readers (unless you’re my enemy, in which case, depending on your level of evil, I may short sheet your bed). The Griswolds, who truly do laugh in the face of death (good naturedly, of course), fear no luge. Not one. So when I found myself standing atop Lars Mountain’s summit with a flimsy plastic toboggan in hand, I knew there was no backing out.
If it were possible for a mountain to have a grade steeper than vertical, Lars Mountain has it. At one point on my descent, I think I was upside down. Once I reached terminal velocity, I crashed into a young sapling tree. Medics were called, one of those big fluffy dogs with the tiny medical keg around its neck came bounding up and used its warm and saliva-spewing tongue to lick me out of the snow drift I was stuck in like a tent peg. A rescue helicopter was dispatched and people’s regularly scheduled television programs were interrupted to bring them the courageous rescue. I injured my Prideous Maximus and Selfus Respectoid, but otherwise came out of the mishap unscathed.
I had a delish (Sorry beautiful Griswold daughter) fish dish. I repeat, it was delish (not sorry this time).
After my near-fatal crash, I found myself reflecting on my life. How will I be remembered? Have I made the world better? Should I stop photocopying coupons for fun and profit? Do I really know how many licks it takes to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop? Does tongue surface area matter? Do owls even like candy? Eventually, the string of ponderables brought me to the issue of Gingerbread people. Shrek was playing on TNT at the time; I took that as a divine sign that I was called to shelter the molasses-based Ginger-folk.
Elise…I mean, Griswold Daughter 1 and I knew that we could not build enough homes for the Gingers alone, we would need help. Short money for hiring, we chose instead to challenge the other Griswold daughter and her significant other to a good ol’ fashion Gingerbread House Raising. First prize; the love and affection of Momma and Poppa Griswold as well as rights to the front seats of automobiles for any trips taken into town for victuals and supplies.
I neglected to inform the younger Griswold of my previous career as a Lego-Architect. Truly the I.M. Pei of elementary school-aged builders, I have a real knack for assembling pre-fabricated parts. Elise and I quickly raised the walls of our home and shingled the roof, giving us plenty of time (and frosting) for landscaping and décor. Our little cottage shocked the brown sugar right out of the Ginger Family who won the bid to live there. That was pretty gross, but we understood. They were just really excited to move in. So, after cleaning up after Mr. and Mrs. Bread, we showed them around their new home. We chose to go with a NeoVictorian “Stick Style” home; the Breads were very impressed and really appreciated our decision to move away from contemporary GingerBread Trimming, opting instead for exposed trusses and soffits. I’ll pause here while you go on a Google-spree trying to figure out what all that mumbo was about.
If there’s one thing the Griswolds love (and wonder how I’ve neglected to mention until now), it’s Canasta-based card games. In particular, they are Hand and Foot Fanatics (HaFoFans). And when I say HaFoFans, I’m not exaggerating. Every Griswold has a set position at the HaFoTa (Hand and Foot Table) which is determined by a no-holds-barred, full contact, bull rushing of the HaFoTa by all HaFoFans. Failure to yield the right of way to charging HaFoFans can result in immediate incapacitation and the importance of HaFo to HaFoFans means you will be without medical attention for 4-8 hours so unless you happen to keep a Swiss-Rescue-Dog-with-Tiny-Medical-Keg Dog Whistle around your neck, you might as well dash a bit of salt and pepper on your head and wait for the Cockleburs.
After the weekend’s HaFo, Elise and I became suspicious that HaFoPerEns (Hand and Foot Performance Enhancers) might have “accidentally slipped” into some someone’s Cocoa Coffees. A few too many conveniently timed and executed plays of both the Hand and the Foot of a to-remain-nameless duo led to an enormous upset…Okay, okay, it was a totally legitimate win and I just really really really prefer winning to losing (I’d say almost 4:1) BUT, next time there will be mandatory HaFoPerEnTes (Hand and Foot Performance Enhancer Testings).
The Baby Dill
Advice: Do not order double cheeseburgers late at night from DQs in tiny towns where the pickles seem not only lacking in the Kosher-ness, but also in the whole “vegetable” quality. I’m rather certain I ate a gelatin molded to resemble a pickle in shape, but not at all in the two Ts: texture and taste.
Overall, it’s a fabulous time, staying with the WalGriswolds. I’m truly lucky and special; how else do you explain their not having relocated and continuing to answer my calls. Thanks Grisgrens, you’re wonderful people. Bloggy wishes he could come along next time.