Listening to Reason…

17 02 2011

Ok, so that’s not exactly what I’m talking about, but I can’t help it. Something in me thinks that’s funny. ( I’ve tried to purge that “something” for 20 years, but no luck.)

When do you “listen to reason?” Do you have that little voice inside your head that tells you to do something, or (more often for me) not to do something? When you’re fishing a dry and something says to you ” you know, a bead head Hare’s Ear would probably do better…” do you change right away? Or do you wait to see if the voice goes away?

If you’re hiking an unfamiliar trail and you come to the not-s0-proverbial “fork in the road” what do you do? ( Don’t say “take it!” ūüôā )

If you’re thinking all week about going to River S, and then on the day before your trip you think, ” I wonder how River B is fishing these days?” – do you change plans and head for River B? Or, do you stick to the original plan and head out for the river you’ve been planning on fishing all week?

Maybe I’m the only one who has these little voices that sometimes try to tell me to change course or change flies? I realize how open I’m leaving myself here. ūüėČ lol But, I’m willing to do that to hear what you guys have to say?

Do you follow your¬†instincts even if it demands that you change course “mid-stream”¬†or stick to the plan? Maybe you have a story where sticking to the plan paid off – or a story where going with your gut proved to be the right decision!?





Frustration Vacation

13 02 2011

Did you ever have one of those weekends where you thought that maybe God wanted you to stay at home? That maybe some greater cosmic force was upset that you ended up in the Great Outdoors, taking in the beautiful weather and the warm sun? Did you ever stop, look up at the sky and ask “What do you want from me?” I guess I should have know from all the dead skunks along the highway on the way up here this weekend. Apparently it’s skunk mating season, according to my friend Chris. They must all want to mate with¬†Freightliners and PeterBilts from the carnage along I-85.

Well anyway, let me take you through the weekend I’ve just had in case every trip you take turns out peachy-keen. I suppose I shouldn’t be feeling as frustrated as I do, after all the weather was great and the company yesterday was awesome ( my good friend Chris was there) – but we caught few fish. A few. 3. Between us both.

So the fish didn’t exactly go nuts for us, right? That’s ok, right? Yeah, well it would be ok maybe if it was spring already. But this winter! This cold, long, snowy winter that everyone in the South seems to be so sick of enduring…this winter is making it really hard to swallow 3 fish a day between two anglers. I don’t just want fish, I NEED FISH. I enjoy the nature and the woods and the water, but I don’t go fishing to sit on a rock and think about art. If I didn’t like the catching part of fishing, I’d just leave the rod at home and take up hiking I guess…

But, 3 fish a day – ¬†What was I thinking? That’s ok! Because today I only had to swallow one fish. In a river full of 15-30 inch trout (that’s right…..30 inch trout in a public river) I caught one 11 inch brook trout. That’ll show me for complaining about three fish I guess! At least I didn’t break a rod this weekend.

I did twist my ankle and run a #22 Griffith’s Gnat through my index finger though. And I¬†inadvertently¬†froze two bananas out in the truck last night. You know what frozen bananas taste like? No? Trust me, you don’t want to know.

So, this morning I wake up to find that I’ve overslept and I make it to the river at a “rooster crowin’ crack of dawn-ish” 11 am. The river was crowded yesterday. Today it is twice as bad. Somewhere to stand and cast to a fish? Hope you brought your own rock. I eventually find a rock to stand on and this is where I perform the incredible feat of 5 hours +/- of fishing and one little brookie.

Then, I decide on a “non-camping” dinner and stop at Wendy’s. This will make the third time I have ordered the new funky cheese Chicken Sammich and NOT gotten one. Do they even make this thing? Are they just advertising it’s asiago cheese, juicy tomato and crispy bacon to lure ¬†you in and then give you a PLAIN OLD CHICKEN SAMMICH! THREE TIMES WENDY’S! THREE TIMES you have totally screwed up my order. PS – your new FRIES stink, and tonight they were cold. That will teach me to check the order at the window. And by the way, it’s odd that you can always be super-slow in taking my order, but so pushy when you suggest that I take my change, my drink and my food in like .003 seconds. GIVE ME A MINUTE, will you! I have the same number of hands as you do, you idiot – and one has a wallet in it, the other has the change you just gave me. Shoving a large sweet tea and the bag (with my order wrong, mind you) in my face isn’t going to make me go any faster after I just waited 7 MINUTES FOR YOU TO SAY “CAN I TAKE YOU ORDER?” HELLO? ARE YOU NUTS?

Alright. So then after eating my PLAIN CHICKEN SAMMICH ( FOR THE THIRD TIME! GGRRRRH! ) I decided I’d download the video I shot today. There was precious little catching, but I did get a couple of decent shots of trout ( not of the monster 30 inch ones we saw, unfortunately…). I download the video, process it, save it and start to play it back before uploading it online so I can share it with you guys. Guess what? No, really. Guess. You’ll never guess. Never. Nev…..THAT STUPID GLITCH IS IN MY VIDEO AGAIN EVEN THOUGH I CHECKED IT FIVE TIMES BEFORE SAVING IT AS A MOVIE! SO, NOW I HAVE A MOVIE THAT I THINK IS PRETTY *$&# FUNNY, BUT I CAN’T SHOW YOU BECAUSE EITHER MY COMPUTER, THAT (#@&$ WINDOWS MOVIE MAKER, OR THIS CHEAP KODAK CAMERA KEEPS SCREWING UP THE VIDEO! I’m sure I’ll put up the video for you guys eventually, even with the errors in it…but I can’t tell you how frustrating it is to spend an hour putting something together only to have it come out screwed up with no warning.

And now…….I’m so frustrated I can’t sleep. Horray. Like I don’t already have enough of THAT problem as it is.

So, let me ask you guys – have you ever had to ask yourself if maybe you would have been better off at home?

Spring. Please hurry. I can only practice running from bears for so long. . .

 

Spring. Wonderfully Trouty Spring.





Hey, whose National Park is this anyway?

7 02 2011

Each year as cabin fever takes hold, forums across the interwebz get …well, down right hostile. One particular forum I visit has recently started debates about messy horses, dangerous bears, and now loud Harley Davidson motorcycles. The horses aren’t any messier than they ever have been, the bears are as dangerous as always (not very) and the motorcycles, although more numerous….well the motorcyclists are Americans too and as much as some anglers don’t like the idea – it’s their Park, too.

You can hear motorcycles near Park roads as they rumble through the sliver of road that cuts the Great Smoky Mountain National Park in half, and you can hear them as they roll down Little River Road going from the tourist town of Gatlinburg past “the Y” and into Cades Cove. And you can even hear the echo of those American made engines rumbling down the asphalt in the backcountry at times.

The GSMNP is big, but it’s not THAT big. It’s not Alaska. It’s not Montana. It’s surrounded on all sides by cities and towns, cars and construction and we are very fortunate to have it to enjoy. That said, sometimes there are anglers ( and undoubtedly hikers and others) who get so wrapped up in their own little world ( or hobbies) that they forget that this national treasure isn’t protected just for them! The National Parks belong, supposedly, to all Americans. Not just to anglers; not just to hikers and¬†certainly¬†not just to fly fishermen.

Do I enjoy hearing a group of 45 Harley’s blow by me while I’m fishing near the road? Well, no. Even though I am myself a motorcyclist, I’m not fond of crusiers – although I have nothing against them. The sound from 30 or 40 Harley’s lasts maybe 30 seconds as the blow by at their incredibly boring speeds of 25-45 mph. However, when you get enough of them in the Park – like on a holiday weekend or a pretty day in spring – you can relive those joyous moments many times during the day.

Do I think it makes my day in the Park less enjoyable? Maybe. A little. Do I enjoy smelling the exhaust? No. But then, neither do I enjoy smelling the exhaust and brake dust from hot brakes on cars, either.

Do I think that fishing should be banned in the Park? I don’t know….do you think I should? Do you think a guy trying to ride his Harley through the Park might be distracted by the bright flashy yellow of a roll cast to his right or left? Do you think the horseback riders might be upset because every 500 yards of trail they have to slow their horses to let a fisherman pass by? Do you think the hikers enjoy seeing the litter of discarded fishing line hanging from stream-side trees?

Of course, no one is talking about banning hiking or fishing in the Park. At least, not yet.

But people are talking about banning horses and loud motorcycles because apparently they can’t understand the simple fact that the National Park is not just for them. As far as I know there is no law that dictates to Americans the manner in which they may enjoy the Park. Do you want to drive through it in your RV? Would you like to hike the length of it on the A.T. ? Can I interest you in a bicycle ride on the roads around the Park? How about just walking?

Understanding that the National Parks aren’t there just for fisherman is a key step in understanding why dictating to other users the manner in which they may and may not enjoy the Park Lands is wrong. And how do you eat an elephant? One bite at a time. Would it be a good thing, after we’ve outlawed the loud pipes of the Harley owner, to outlaw loud trucks? Then loud cars? But as it gets quieter, what if the regular cars are too loud? Should hikers or bird watchers then band together to outlaw the Ford Focus or Honda Civic for making unwanted noise? And those little tinny-sounding bells on bicycles? If everyone is riding bikes because they can’t drive their cars, are we going to outlaw the bells? If we do that, what about the wheel noise as they go wooooshing by? That’s not natural! Maybe we’ll just outlaw any vehicle and make it “walking only.” But when that happnes, woe to the fly-fisher whose heavy boots will cause alarm among the most eco-conscience among us. Fly Fishing boots will have to go and we’ll all need to wear wading slippers made of cotton and lace.

Ok, ¬†yes – yes – that’s absurd, but I hope it makes you think. And I hope it makes you step back out of your own world, whatever that world may be – fishing, hiking, hunting, camping, biking, 4-wheeling, and makes you realize that whatever you do in the great outdoors, you are not the sole possesor of our collective natural areas. And no one group should ever be able to dictate to another group the exact manner in which they are allowed to enjoy THEIR National Park, National Forest, or other public lands. And especially for the minor¬†inconvenience¬†of “hearing” another group as they travel through those lands. Get over it, you’re not in the Alaskan wilderness when you’re in a National Park and you don’t have the right to end someone else’s enjoyment of the Parks any more than they have the right to do the same to you.

It’s funny…..you never hear of a Horse Riding Club wanting to ban bird watchers or trout anglers…

Maybe their not as selfish as anglers? You tell me…





Remember when…

4 02 2011

No, not the Alan Jackson song, although that’s a good song. Remember when you were new to whatever it was you’re into now? I do. I remember it like it was yesterday. I walked into a bait-n-tackle shop in the small college town we lived in ( I was already married) and saw a Cortland 7’6 4 wt. standing in a rack with a bunch of bass rods. It was the only fly rod in the place and it was ( gasp!) $59.00. I’d bought a fly rod a few years before. One of those Kmart types with the rubber winding check that¬†disintegrated¬†after a year in the elements and a “butt end” just in front of that winding check that was as big as a large carrot on the leafy end. It was probably 8 foot something long and as heavy as ten modern-day rods. But this Cortland rod…this little gem, with it’s shiny plastic covering over the light, clean cork…this thing was something else. It was small. Thin, I guess is what I should say. And it was dark charcoal in color, not heavy¬†burgundy¬†like that old Kmart rod. And when I walked up to it and gently lifted it from between the rubber stoppers holding it in place it nearly floated to the ceiling! And the best part – the thing came apart at a joint and had a little case that it fit into just so! I had to have it. I bought it on the spot. No reel. No line. Just that little rod. I walked out of there like I’d won the lottery, the check-out guy shaking his head.

You see, the nearest trout stream was 130 miles from there, and everyone knows you don’t use a rod that small for tossing crickets and a styrofoam¬†cork to bluegills “on the bed.” But it didn’t matter to me. I felt like Luke Skywalker when Obi Wan first handed him that Light-Saber. I was going to catch so many trout on this thing, I thought to myself, that my arms would fall off.

I wish I could tell you that I remember where I aquired a line and reel from, but I can’t. That’s what happens when you hit middle-age I suppose – at least when you were from an age where there were no “blogs” to record your fishing adventures. I didn’t know anyone at the time that wrote down things about their fishing trips. That would be silly. What would you do that for? Nonsense.

Anyhoot, I took that little rod and that reel and line from who-knows-where and I headed to the mountains that summer. I fished a few rivers without much success, and one day read in the Department of Natural Resources rulebook about some “artificial only” streams. I thought ” COOL! A creek where the fish like artifical stuff. ..only.”

I settled on the Coleman River. A little creek that feeds into one of the most popular put-n-take rivers in the state. When I got there though, there wasn’t a Coleman River. There was a Coleman stream. A Coleman branch. A Coleman Creek even…but I could almost hop across this “river.” Ah, but I didn’t care. I had my new rod and a new fly I’d discovered looking through the Cabela’s catalog. I was ready and I was hungry for success.

 

The upper Coleman "River"...when I was younger and didn't know any better...I once stood on that rock and pee'd downstream. Don't ask me why I remember that.

I stood upstream from a deep pool. I noticed that my head was almost touching some rhododendron limbs that sagged down toward the boulder where I’d gotten into position for a first cast into the pool. I flicked the new fly I’d “discovered” – a Royal Wulff into the current just short of the whitewater part…and I stripped out line. I knew how to cast, but I’d read somewhere that you could fish a fly this way in difficult current and catch fish. It was all difficult to me back then.

The fly floated downstream. A dark shape rose up in the water. A small rocket surged upward from underneath and there was a rather large spurt of water that shot up a foot into the air. The fly was gone – and I’d seen the thief that took it! I set the hook! The boulder was wet! My foothold failed! As I slipped, my new Cortland rod met it’s doom. My precious Light-Saber-Trout-Slayer-of-a-rod lodged itself between two rhodo limbs from two¬†separate¬†trees. I heard the THUWMP of my rear end hitting the rock hard;¬†simultaneously¬†I heard the “…crr-rr-rr-aa-cc-kkkkk!” of the Cortland as it splintered into several pieces just above the joint. I hand-lined the little 12 inch rainbow in, admired him and let him go. I almost got angry because of the broken rod….until I noticed the fly and it reminded me that I’d done what I set out to do. I was no longer the neophyte that hadn’t caught a trout on a fly. I was a fly fisher on his way to catching his share of trout over the years, who’d already broken the first of several dozen rods while doing so. I’ll take the trade-off now, just as I did back then.

This post happened because I was reading my friend Tippin’Taco’s blog about his new waders. ‘Taco has the “fever” and he has as bad a case as I’ve ever seen in a grown man. Reading his post led me to a post on ¬†Intro to the Outdoors and both those guys reminded me of this story and that we’re all “noobs” at some point along the way. And you know, the thing is – it’s not something to stress out about. Don’t worry if you don’t have all the right gear or don’t make all the right casts. These guys know it’s all about the experience and that’s how it should be. Those first difficult and sometimes frustrating steps are something to enjoy while you’re new to the thing – whatever it is – and their something to remember when you’re older and maybe a bit wiser and their aren’t as many mysteries to solve.

Both of those blogs offer a fresh look into the minds of some new fly fishers and I think both are going to be very interesting rides. ūüôā





Who loves you, baby? Death Prong, Part Four

3 02 2011

Death Prong, Part Four

________________________________________

…so we hike, and we hike and we hike. It isn’t all bad – at least we don’t have our packs. We have fishing “chest packs” with some fly boxes and tippet spools, one small bag of what’s left of some GORP, and a magnesium fire-starter tool. And one space blanket that could not have been made for use in space, nor to cover just one space since it promptly split in two when Milliam tried to use it.

Anyway, I’m getting ahead of myself.

We’re deep into the side of the mountain now, one switch-back after another. It’s longer this way, but a long time ago someone figured out that winding a trail up a steep slope going left-right-left-right was less likely to kill you in the first ten minutes of the climb. So we switchback, again and again. It’s really dark. We stop at a fork in the trail. Those guys that pointed us up this trail didn’t tell us which fork to take and although we’d like to put Yogi Berra’s wisdom to use, we find that even in the real world it does us no good. So we guess left, and proceed up the sloped trail, dust flying, pine needles kicked, to the next switchback.

An hour goes by, maybe an hour and a half. We stop to rest, standing in the trail and I hear something. It’s down below us. As the trail winds up and over smaller side-ridges along this mountainside, you have a drop off to the left or to the right at all times. This “sound” was coming from the drop-off. We walked a few more yards and stopped again. We heard it stop. When we were walking, we couldn’t hear it but each time we stopped abruptly to “test” the thing that was following us, we could hear it stop too. Something was¬†paralleling¬†us up the mountain. Was it a bear? A deer? Bigfoot? I was hoping it wasn’t bigfoot, because I was in no shape to try and jump high enough to poke him in the eye. I pointed my little single-LED light hopelessly into the dark black woods. I almost giggled, but I was feeling way too bad by then to do that. I must have giggled in my head a bit. That little light. Those deep, dark woods. It’s funny now, sure.

A few dozen yards later whatever it was left us. Back to the switchbacks. Up, up, up, up….a small saddle at one point where the ground was flat and we thought about stopping. But we heard a car along the parkway just seconds before reaching the saddle and decided to push oh.

In what seemed like a couple more hours ( although it was only another 30-45 minutes I’m sure) we saw headlights. We saw a car on the Parkway. Thank GOD! It was then that I caught a sort of “second wind” and gained an ever so slight bounce in my step. It was short-lived though as we soon realized that the trail we were on was going away from, and then parallel to the Parkway. How far was it until this thing crossed the parkway? Another mile – or five miles? The woods were thick here, the terrain not being as steep. There was no way we were going to bushwhack our way through all that laurel and dog hobble in the middle of the night. Snakes, bears, who knows what else could very realistically be in there somewhere. Maybe even bigfoot for all we knew. No, we would stick to the trail and stick it out. We’d come this far. We could make it to the Parkway.

And so we did. We popped out into what I can only describe as a desolate, star-filled stretch of some of the highest roads in North Carolina. Not a car in sight. Not in the parking lot and not on the road. No matter. We’d just wait for one and flag them down.

The first car wasn’t a car. It was a van. A white van. I stood in the road with my little LED light and the van pulled to a halt. It was 2:30 am. The fellow driving it looked worse than we did.

“Can you give us a ride – up the road, about two miles to the parking area for (we’ll call it) Snapfinger Fields?” I asked the less than respectable looking driver.

” no.”

” No? ” I asked staring at him and his van, the inside covered in some 70’s velvet red shag carpet. ” No?” I asked again.

“No. Maybe the Ranger at that next parking area can help you.”

He drove off.

Now, the thing is folks….at nearly 3 am on the Blue Ridge Parkway there’s not going to be a “ranger” at the next anything. Most of the LEO’s that would patrol up there are at home asleep. The chances that this guy was telling us the truth was slim indeed. I didn’t trust him and I told Milliam, who was fiddling with that stupid space blanket that maybe we were better off not getting a ride from him.

The next car came along and pulled to a stop. It was an older model “family car.” Bronze or brown, it was hard to tell in the pitch black night. It was full of young men, probably 6 or 7 of them, and not one of them was wearing a shirt. What that means I still to this day don’t know and I don’t want to know. I told them we’d walk. “Nevermind, guys. Thanks anyway.” They hit the first curve going away from us at “ludicrous¬†speed!” and I was once again glad we were going to be forced to walk.

We walked for maybe a mile and a half. Owl distance, mind you. It was probably only a half mile. I stepped with heavy wading boot feet along the Parkway, alternating my view from the stars above to the inside of my eyelids. Every now and then I’d look at the road to make sure I wasn’t walking off the side of the cliff. Step, step, step…look at stars….step, step, step…look at feet….step, step, step look at starts, step, step, step look at SNAKE!

I jumped three feet up and two back. It was the largest rattler I’d ever seen in the Blue Ridge. I’d estimate it’s length to be nearly 7 feet. I’d almost stepped right on top of it. I was suddenly VERY awake. Luckily, the snake was missing a couple of things. Namely, it’s tail and it’s head. Cars along the Parkway had done their damage earlier that evening and it was nothing but the trunk of the beast. I got my heart back under control and checked my shorts. All ok. We hiked on…up and down and around the paved curves of the BRP. Until suddenly….around 4:30am …I could hike no more. I told Milliam I was done. That I couldn’t walk anymore. I didn’t know why, but later it seemed so obvious. My muscles, lacking water and¬†electrolytes and probably some other stuff they need…¬†had given up.

 

Milliam at the beginning of the two day trip...

We “made camp” by lighting a small fire in the woods, far enough away from the road so that if we fell asleep we wouldn’t be run over. We got a grand total of maybe an hour’s worth of sleep in the next three. When the sun broke, I couldn’t walk more than 50 feet before I was done again. Milliam walked the last 1/2 mile back to the car and came and got me. I told you, he’s braver and stronger and …well, he’s in much better shape than I am too. He’s pretty much everything I wish I was as far as the outdoors go. I’m just better looking.

So, we parked the car and got a little something to drink. And then…well, and then friends…we hiked the mile into the valley where our tents were set up from two nights before. We’d spent one night around the campfire and sleeping in comfort and one night hiking with bigfeets and being turned down by a scraggly guy in a van. A guy who just happened to look alot like that killer they caught in GA just a couple of months after our trip. He’s killed again, this time on a mountain not far from my home called Blood Mountain. The poor girl was only a kid.

 

Base camp. We got one night there at least. I guess that was something.

After sleeping restlessly for an hour or so we…come on…you can guess what we had to do right? That’s right. We had to pack up our 40 pound packs and hike BACK out of the valley we were camped in…back to the car for the long drive home. On the way home I made Milliam stop and buy me something to drink at every single place that sold something to drink. We must have gone into 4 places and hit 5 or 6 drive-thru windows. I still didn’t have much of a clue what was wrong with me – I just knew I was really thirsty still.

 

Native Southern App. Brookie...say "ahhhh"

I missed two or three days of work that week. I couldn’t get my legs to work right and I couldn’t stop drinking anything I could get my hands on. One thing for sure though…I’ll never, ever forget that first trip to Death Prong.

What? Oh yes. Milliam talked me into going back the next year and going upstream. But perhaps another time…

The View South from the Parkway near our exit...

 





Stealth Owl 101

26 01 2011

While the fires are raging over on the OBN thread about the First Ever OBN Convention, Outdoor Extravaganza and Fishing Expo ( ok, so I¬†embellished¬†a little, big deal ), I’ve already been planning ahead.

Everyone thinks I’m going to roll into town and paint everything red, but little do they know that A. I’m all out of red paint ( how about lavender rose? ) and 2. I hate painting.

No, it’s not going to go down like that. I’m going to slip into town without anyone knowing I’m there…do a little stealth reporting in disguise, maybe put a “Kick Me” sign on Quill Gordon’s back ( if he has the GUTS to show up! ha! ), pull River Damsel’s pig-tails, and then slide on back to the Smoky Mountains as quietly as I came.

There won’t be live video feeds about whatever that is that Mike the Tenkara Slave is wearing ( a sun dress, with those legs? hmm), how much money was won or lost on whether or not Joe and Rebecca really planned an online casino that went horribly wrong, or Rodney sightings, ¬†etc. etc. etc. None of that.

There also won’t be pictures of food, beer, flies, reels, bass plugs, fly tying lessons, casting in parking lots, the trading of gear or baseball cards or even yesterday’s chili dogs that we left in someone’s car all day with the windows rolled up. No audio recorded of pillow fights, impromptu square dancing callers, feral pigs wandering the hallways of some unsuspecting hotel (being stalked by guys with traditional bows that cost more than my truck), nothing like that. Not at all.

We won’t have written documentation of anyone’s casting style, how many firearms you can fit into a ’79 Camaro, who has the stinkiest hiking boots or who will eat the most disgusting bug for $8 and some change. Can’t say that we’ll record the giant rainbow trout sure to be caught among the backdrop of the Rockies, the tears from the one that got away, or the quiet peace of a few friends finally meeting up in person and walking a river together.

You’ll have to come see all that for yourself if you want to hear about it. Or see it. Or experience it.

OK, there may be one video. Two,…max.

But me? You’ll never know I was there. I told you….I’m going to sneak in there, Ninja Style….

I’ve already got my disguise ready…





Roll Cast, 4 feet, tight loop…

25 01 2011

An unusual drive-by post for me, but I wanted to get it out there before I forget to say it for the fifty-third time:

Please spay and neuter your…no, no that wasn’t it…hmmm….

Oh yeah! I remember what it was now…

Top 234 Reasons to Read This Blog

#234…

Nah. That wasn’t it either…

While I’m thinking I’ll remind you that if you want to link to an article that you find interesting or funny, make sure you click on that articles’ title before you grab the URL. If you just grab the url from the homepage, by the time your sister-in-law in¬†Albuquerque gets around to coming here to see that funny picture, it could be a post about tippet size or dry fly treatment. So, remember to go to the actual page you want to share before copying that URL. ( You can always use the “share” links from that page that are under each post, too! )

Now, what was it I was wanting to tell you guys….

Let’s just make a list:

  • Go Packers.
  • I think I may be getting the flu.
  • I’ve had enough rain and snow this winter.
  • I’m very much “over” American Idol.
  • I will not be watching President Barack Hussein Obama tonight, because I already know the state of the Union.
  • I need a new T-shirt or three.
  • I have no idea what’s for dinner, but there’s a good chance it’s “something with chicken.”
  • Oprah could find she was related to Elvis or Castro and I still wouldn’t care.
  • I have an increasingly horrible case of Cabin Fever revolving around rainbow trout.
  • It gets dark much too early this time of year.
  • Did I mention I think I may be getting the flu? uggggh.

Yep. I guess that about does it. The sad part is, none of that was what I was going to tell you when I started this post. Roll….that’s how I.

 

Have a great Tuesday night everyone!








%d bloggers like this: