The Lakehouse
Mood:  lazy
Now Playing: Buddy Guy
So, Linds, Janelle, Chris and I reconnoitered at my parent’s summer place AKA the lake house (and no, not the Keanu Reeves/Sandy Bullock disaster of a film). It was lovely timing as the folks were in La Jolla at a friend’s beach house so the stellar pad was ours!

Chris and I drove up early to open up the house. We unfortunately discovered the local yokels in a town en route North were having an early 4th of July ‘parade’. Now, I use the term ‘parade’ loosely as I’m not sure that it really applies to 2 bunting-covered golf carts, followed by 3 ancient broads twirling festive batons, a fat man playing a tuba, a bunch of kids walking with balloons, a clown driving a blue tractor, some kids being pulled in red wagons, a man walking a ginormous pig on a leash, someone in a hot dog outfit and some more kids riding in a rowboat on wheels towed by two really mangy looking mules really constitute a ‘parade’. Probably only on Springer or in Deliverance, but I digress…

All of these ‘parade’ entries were spaced at least 15 yards or more apart so needless to say, we were there awhile. A looooong while. Long enough to decide that it would behoove us to pull over and check out the craft/Indian fry bread stand and the corral full of bison. Chris, being from the East coast, was pretty impressed. I guess watching penned bison crapping can do that to a man or as he’s dating me, he could just be easily impressed.

An hour later, we arrived at the lake house without further freakshow delay and the rest of the gang arrived a few hours later.

We had a killer time. Lots of story telling, laughter, boozing and fishing until all hours. Just tons of fun.

As for the story telling, I think my favorite one was my sister recounting an incident from our childhood. Apparently, when I was 6 and she was 9, she had a fascination with the then Dallas Cowboy’s kicker Rafael Septian. She just thought his name was beyond cool. One day, she got mad at me and said “You’re just a Rafael Septian” to me. I ran crying to my mom sobbing that “Lindsay’s swearing at me in Spanish.” Ah, the joys of yute!

And of course we fished. My sister and I are avid fisherbitches. When we were kids, we went all the time with our dad. Probably because our dad had no idea what to do with girls other than boy things. We fished, went to Suns games, drove go-karts, fished, used power tools, raced electric cars, fished, built forts, played darts, thumb wrestled and fished some more.

So Linds is online checking the local stats on what size fish are legal to take and what size you have to throw back. While she was rattling off statistics, I asked her what kinds of fish were stocked in the lake. She proceeds to tell us “Well there’s catfish, large mouthed bass, trout, crappy, blue gill…” So I asked her “How big of a crappy can you take?” She replied dryly “It depends on what I ate that day.” Buh-dum-pah! Needless to say, we all howled and howled and howled.

‘Crappy’ became the word of the trip ‘cuz you know there’s nothing like a fish having the same name as a slang term for poo to really bring out the hilarity on a trip! (Or at least if you’re on a trip with me….)