I'm hoooooooooooooome! It's been a busy weekend, but I'm safely ensconced, once more, in my computer chair. I'm being stalked by cats and the luggage that I still haven't unpacked is calling me names from the bedroom (where it learned that kind of language is fucking beyond me), but it's awfully nice to be back. In case the curiosity is killing you, this is where I spent my weekend:
Doesn't that look peaceful?
That's Daddy's vacation house, affectionately known as, simply, 'the lake cabin'. It's rustic, but we all love it. It's insanely relaxing, remote, and entirely too close to certain parts of nature I could live without (hellooooooooooo, bugs!), but overall? It's my favorite place on the planet. Here's a view of it from the boat, so you can see the overall property:
I spent the majority of my time there fishing. Me, a pole, and a bucket of doomed, unsuspecting minnows. Poor bastards. But hey... I love fresh fried fish, and if a few dozen minnows have to meet their maker in order for me to have it, well... life's a bitch. I'm sure they'll come back in a higher evolved, less bait-friendly life form the next go 'round. All I know is, from about 6 in the morning till freaking bed time, here is where you could find me:
I had an encounter with what could be, conceivably, the biggest fish known to man. I don't know what the fucker was, but I hooked him twice. TWICE. Both times? He totally stole not only my bait, but also my HOOK and my goddamned SINKER. Damned fish snapped the line right the hell off. And before anyone asks, NO, I did not get hung up on a damned tree bass (for those of you who don't know what a tree bass is, it's the tree roots/shrubs/growy things that are under the docks, on the lake floor, that provide a haven for fishies so that you actually have things to fish for.) One gets hung up on these things, on occasion, if one is fishing too deep. This, however, is NOT what happened to me. Generally speaking, a tree bass doesn't dart around like Jeff Gordon on crack. Trees? Pretty fucking stationary. No, this was a GINORMOUS fish. The first time, I didn't get a look at him. The second time? I got him almost all the way to the surface before he snapped the line, so I got to see him. GINORMOUS. I'm not sure what kind of fish he was, since lake water tends to be a little murky and it was reeeeeeeeeeal early, so still some shadows on the water, but he was BIG. His head? Roughly between the size of a grapefruit and a cantaloupe. BIG. And snapped that line with one full body heave. That's a strong fucking fish. The Schwarzenegger of fishies. Now, the best part is that, of course, I had no witnesses. Connor was there, so he saw what happened, but he couldn't lean over far enough to see the fish as it came up to the top of the water by the underside of the dock. He'd have gone right over the edge, poor graceless thing, and I couldn't let that happen. So he got to see my pole bent in fucking half while I fought the fish, and he saw the line snap, but missed the 'monster fish'. That's our pet name for it now, followed by the ever popular 'the one that got away'. I've never been so pissed off to not have a bystander handy. I think Jonathan believes me, but I think Daddy's decided I'm having delusions. I am NOT having delusions. I had freaking JAWS on the line, dammit! It's down there taunting me right this minute. I just know it. Laughing at me and telling all his friends about it as he shows off my shiny hooks that he's now using for his body piercing collection. Damned fish.
Connor took his first shot at fishing, too. Hence:
That was, unfortunately, not a keeper, but still... it was festive. He actually caught a keeper the day before, but we forgot to have the camera down on the dock and missed the photo op. Bad Mommy, bad! Ah, well. The part Connor likes best is going out in the boat. Tough call which he likes better, going out in the bass boat with Grandpa Doyle:
Or hitting the lake in the pontoon boat (which I guess some people call a party barge, but it's a damned pontoon boat. Deal.):
The best part of going out on the pontoon boat? To Connor? My father's twisted sense of humor. See, Daddy does this thing where he waits for Connor to be walking down the middle of the pontoon boat, while it's in motion, then he stops suddenly or steps on the gas (figuratively, since there's no gas pedal to step on with a damned boat... ), which sends Connor flying, one direction or the other, till he either grabs a handrail, a bench, or lands on his ass. Connor thinks this is hysterical, luckily... not as funny as Daddy thinks it is, since he almost laughs himself into a coma to see my 7 year old making like a Weeble, but still. Yeah, my dad's a hoot.
Me? I think the boat is for a whole different purpose:
I manage to stay awake for about half the ride, then succumb to the inevitable lulling motion of the pontoon. Ah, sweet siren song of the cushions! What, can't a woman nap in peace? Apparently not, since my husband decided it was the perfect time to take a damned picture. Thanks, honey. My white skin and 12 year old physique appreciate your timing.
Now, my husband is one who generally hides from cameras. It's like pulling teeth to get him to sit still for a picture, and nine times out of ten his internal radar goes off if I'm trying to sneak in a shot and I end up getting a lovely picture of the back of his head or his middle finger, fully extended. I put my foot down this once, though, and was rewarded thusly:
I love it when a plan comes together.
Well, overall? A great weekend. Minus the fact that I got no sleep Friday night. Daddy needs to replace those mattresses on the guest beds. Every time I'd start to fall asleep, I'd roll into the middle of the mattress, which was, to my everlasting frustration, resembling nothing so much as a giant taco.
As opposed to a chalupa.
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