Where To Go From Here

I lost my job on Friday.
 
    I planned on penning something eloquent in order to express how I truly feel about this but the words just won't come.
 
        At four o'clock on Friday afternoon, I was called into the office where the owner of the company I worked for and my supervisor told me that we would be closed effective immediately.

      I wanted to throw my chair at the owner, scream that he had ruined my life and storm out. I wanted to tell him that he was terrible at running a company; how I had no idea how I am going to pay my bills simply because he is incompetent.  

       But just like any good "I'm done with this stupid company" dream scenario, everything I wanted to do fell by the wayside as I tears formed tributaries on my face. I cried during the entire thing as my rich boss told me that I'd get two weeks severance.  Before I left he added that he'd be more than happy to supply any reference for my outstanding work.  I didn't have the strength to tell him that I would never, as long as I live as him for reference.  He had no idea what I did there or what I did for that company.  He sat atop his throne and looked down at his peons, waiting for the perfect moment to pull the rug out from beneath us to watch us fall.

   I'm lost.  I have no idea where to go from here.

      I'm going to disappear for a little while to a land of snow, Momma and snowmobiling.  Home is the perfect solitude to find my ground.

    There is so much more that I need to write but adventure calls.

The Quagmire: Week Five

A Quagmire of Thoughts from a Tree Stand

Greetings from Hunt Like You're Hungry central! I hope you all are having a great week.  For those of you new to HLYH, this is a weekly compilation of the outdoors.  I began this as round-up that includes not only my own thoughts but stories, reviews, and rants from fellow bloggers.  I've had a couple submissions here and there but with duck season in January, I have fallen behind with my beloved Quagmire.  But fear not, friends- we're back! There is a little laundry list to get to so I'm going to stop rambling and dive into the good stuff!

2011 Mastodon Hunt

I started to mull over my ability to hunt random species of animals a couple of weeks ago while lounging in the stand. Hunting whitetail was getting boring and ducks were far too easy.  I compiled a list of things that would prove more difficult, as many of them are extinct. The first animal on the list was the mighty mastodon. I figured that I would be able to harvest one, but it would be difficult.  Getting the permits was one thing, as I had to go to the Museum of Natural Science and beg for a Mastodon Hunting license. When this went swimmingly, I had to focus my attention on my weapon.  Given that mastodons are exceedingly hefty (they can exceed 8 tons) I knew that a simple broadhead would fail to do the job. I researched ancient methods for hunting and found that the preferred method was to use some sort of man-made spear.  The wheels started turning in my head.  It took only a few moments to realize that I could use my Vicxen with a spear and do some major damage.  I sighted in my spear-bow using the side of an old barn as a target.  As soon as I knew that it was ready, I ventured out to a nearby glacier to wait.  Many animals meandered past but when a shadow cast over everything, I knew it was time.  Breathing steadily, I took the shot.  Down the beast fell and I was able to snap this quick picture:

The hunt was beautiful- if you get a chance to harvest such a prehistoric, extinct species- I strongly encourage it.  But now that the beast has fallen... I need some help.  Has anyone field dressed a 16,000 pound animal?

HLYH Is Open For Business!

DU is bored. Duck season has reached its end and it seems that he lost his zest for life. In order to quell his sloth-like yearnings, he has decided to build a series of things instead of having to buy them for next season.  He created a butt feeder and a swimming decoy out of spare parts that work better than store- brands.  Once he conquered the decoy scene, he focused his attention to call lanyard making.  We had noticed that stores charge a pricey sum for patrons to buy lanyards that are either of low quality or don't fit properly.  Hence, DU set out to learn how to make them himself.  His first venture was created out of blue and white chords to reflect his love for all things Indianapolis Colts.  DU has now extended his line to include more hunter-friendly colors.  

I could be like the Shamwow infomercial guy and dunk the lanyards in water to show you how absorbent they are, but since we're not going for water retention that would be useless. So I'm going for a nice, friendly pitch. If you're looking for a new lanyard in specific colors or are in desperate need for high-quality moving decoys, e-mail me!

Note:  I love DU but the off-season combined with days off from school makes him looking for things to fix/clean/annoy me with. Keeping DU busy will not only make me happier but allow me to write more so if you love my writing (and my non-broken appliances) and want it to continue- PLEASE KEEP HIM BUSY.

GUN FOR SALE

The harvest of my first deer was the most pivotal moment in my hunting past.

It was in the iota of a second that gun went off that my adoration of all things hunting was borne.

However, I can't justify keeping that gun in the light of other gun purchases that need to be made as my hunting tastes expand to envelop other wild game. I'm hesitant to let it go but I know it is for the best. The Mossburg 500 will go to a nice farm family with a lot of land that it can hunt. 

For those of you who know how deeply one can connect with the firearm that began a lifetime of hunting, you know the feelings I'm experiencing- and why I felt the need to include it on The Quagmire. 

Lorretta Lynn- A Goddess of Country Music

GAC is one the best country channels out there.  CMT generally plays the same 10 pop-country songs over and over which makes me want to bludgeon my TV. I discovered GAC and while they tend to play some pop-country-crap, they are really good about playing the old mixed with the new.  

I was minding my own business one morning when GAC took me by surprise by playing one of the most beautiful songs I have heard in a very long time.  Brushing my teeth suddenly took a backseat as I stood in my bedroom, mouth full of toothpaste, and starred at the images on the screen. Loretta Lynn, Miranda Lambert and Sheryl Crow combined their stunning voices to produce a ballad entitled, "Coal Miner's Daughter".  The lyrics are stunning, as the song is a tribute to not only Loretta Lynn but also countless female country stars who paved the way for vocalists like Lambert and Crow.

What struck me most were a series of lyrics...

  "In the summertime, we didn't have shoes to wear.

      But in the wintertime, we'd all get a brand new pair,

         From a mail order catalog, money made by selling a hog, 

            Daddy managed to get the money somewhere."

The song brings the listener back to a time where shoes aren't a necessity but a luxury.  Fathers worked hard and mothers took care of their families the best they could.  If you haven't heard this song, I strongly suggest a listen- you'll fall back to the past and be thankful for the present. 

5,000

Earlier this week, I was astonished to see that my little blog was slowly but surely reaching 5,000 hits.  Given that I began this little writing adventure four months ago, I'm shocked that I had reached such a number in such a short amount of time. I'm also reaching 50 followers which, to me, is an astronomical number. When I gained my first follower, I freaked out.  I e-mailed DU as quickly as I could and proclaimed "SOMEONE IS FOLLOWING MY BLOG!"  Least to say, I was excited.  Each time I view a new comment or someone else follows my writing feels like Christmas.  I cannot begin to thank each of you enough for the attention that you have given my writing.  I know it can be off-the wall sometimes but the fact that you still read it (and since I'm assuming you still are right now, I'm doing something right) means the absolute world to me. So, again- thank YOU.  Yes, YOU the one who is reading currently reading the words I type.  You are the force which continues my writing and brings happiness to my life everyday. 

Well, friends- that's it! For a more concise overview of what I hope for The Quagmire to turn into, please check out the site that is laying hidden beneath these words.

As always, I hope you all have a great week! 

For those of you enjoying the last days of duck season- GOOD LUCK! Let me know how you do!

Happy Hunting!

Hunting Vocabulary Review

  I'd like to think that I have a lot of common sense.  Unfortunately, I don't.  New concepts terrify me. While a normal person would rationally try to understand said concept, I curl into a small ball, hoping that the concept will think that I died.  Often when I'm faced with having to make sense of something new, I attempt to grasp at concepts that I'm familiar with in order to make some sort of vague connection. I can do pretty well with this, as my aptitude in this process made it so that I earned my BA in English, at the head of my class, without having to really read anything. 

   Months ago, DU and I were driving to watch the Colts play at a nearby bar with his fellow Indianians (Indianagites?).  On the way, DU was going on about the god that Payton Manning is when I realized I had failed to break the news to him that  I have never understood football. I tried to fall back on my vague connection process but when he started talking about things like "first downs"(Is that the first one down the field?), "hail Marys" (Aaaahhhh so they're religious?), and "Tight Ends" (Now that is just dirty), I couldn't take the deception anymore. I figured that this moment was the perfect time to tell him, as we were in a death vehicle barreling down the highway reaching imminent danger.

  "You'll really love it, hunny.  It's like he throws the ball and a guy just APPEARS at the end! He acts like coach and reads plays on the sidelines the entire game. It's like magic..."

   "Like magic... yeah..."

   My head suddenly filled with images of Harry Potter trying to propel the ball down the field with his wand when I caught myself.

   "Speaking of magic... if I tell you something, will you promise not to kill us?"

   "Sure.... you do realize that has nothing to do with magic, right?"

   "Yeah but I couldn't find a better segue into what I have to tell you."

   "That was weak. You're better than that but I'll let it go"

   "Good... it's just. I don't understand football."

    The silence in the car permeated to the radio, as the radio announcer lost his voice mid-way through the news story he was proclaiming to the land.  I cursed Mr. Radio Announcer and silently pleaded with him to continue speaking so DU would come back to reality.  The car slowly veered off the road.  Once we hit that annoying bumpy stuff on the shoulder, DU came back to life.  He took control of the car and gained enough strength to ask me how in Payton's name do I not understood football?

   That answer was simple.  I had grown up in a household who adored the Buffalo Bills.  Bills' fans are notorious for blind loyalty and an questionable amount of enthusiasm for a team who habitually loses to anyone they play.  Growing up in Buffalo, my mom was born a Bills' fan.  Hence, on Sundays at our house, every TV would be on and no one was allowed to talk.  I was too scared to ask questions, as speaking during a game may cause a cataclysmic cycle, culminating in yet another Bill's defeat. (Other things that would cause the Bills to lose- The removal the box of Flute Flakes from the top of the TV and taking Jim Kelly's name in vain)  So, I'd watch the game or go upstairs to read a book in peace.  My parents threw gigantic Superbowl Parties and people would pile into the house.  I'd be cute, dress up in team colors, eat food and watch commercials.  But throughout my years of watching football, I never really understood how one actually plays the game.  This is because it is impossible to connect football with hockey.

   I know hockey inside and out, as I played it for more than half my life.  The rules are like second nature and I could call a game better than a NHL ref.  However, this causes problems because no other sport is like hockey. I get soccer and lacrosse because the rules closely resemble the sport I love, but if I can't translate a sport into hockey terms, my brain gives up.  

   My thinking now cleaves into two regions; hunting and hockey.  Hence, if I can relate something to either, I understand it.  I'm in the process of studying for my GRE's (Graduate Record Examination or Grotesquely Repulsive Examination) because for some odd reason I miss school. Since this is the exam to get into graduate school, it is terribly difficult.  I already took the exam once, the scores were absolutely dismal so I'm going for a second try. Last time, I neglected to study because I figured that my sheer brilliance would get me through the test easy.  This did not happen so I'm actually going to try to get some review done before February 15th.  I got my little review books out of the library, set up my study station, and procured new pens (superior ink flow is imperative).  Going over the tests has been interesting but having to reivew 3,500 vocabulary words is simply daunting. I respected the task as impossible until I recalled my old standby.

   Yes, dear reader, vocabulary is fun again! I've begun altering words' definitions into hunting terms and using them in hunting-related sentences. So, without further adieu, I bring you:

THE HUNTING GUIDE TO THE GRES:

SECTION IV- VOCABULARY REVIEW

Consanguinity- N. Kinship. Real Usage: Wanting to be rid of yet another wife, Prince Randolf XXII sought a divorce on the grounds of consanguinity, claiming their blood relationship was creepily close.
Hunting Usage: In order to strengthen their consanguinity, those at deer camp ingested copious amounts of beer and told dirty jokes.

Ebullient- ADJ. Showing excitement. How I acted when I harvested my first duck. Real Usage: Lorraine's ebullient nature could not be quelled; she was always jumping with excitement.
Hunting Usage: In my ebullient celebration after killing my first duck, I fell face-first into a pile of snow.

Opprobrium- N. Infamy; vilification. Real Usage: OJ Simpson refused to defend himself against the slander and opprobrium hurled against him by the newspapers, even though they were right.
Hunting Usage: E4, after hearing my opprobrium about the tiny deer he shot with my gun, spread lies that I like Fatback and empty power lines.


Remunerative- ADJ. Compensating, rewarding.  Real Usage: I find my vacation so remunerative that I may not return to my real job.
Hunting Usage: Real hunters find even the long days where nothing shows up remunerative.

Machinations- N. evil schemes or plots. Real Usage: Roadrunner is a master of machinations to get Wile. E Coyote squashed by some sort of large object.
Hunting Usage: These ingenious ducks constantly evade our machinations to kill them, as they never fly low enough for a good shot.

Zephyr- N. gentle breeze.  Real Usage: When the zephyrs blew through the ship, the captain called for all hands on deck.
Hunting Usage: I used the zephyr to my advantage and allowed it to waft the smell of bacon through the cabin to rouse my fellow hunters.

Malingerer- N. One who feigns illness to escape duty.  Real Usage: The captain ordered the sergeant to punish all malingerers and force them to work.
Hunting Usage: Given that I am an extremely convincing malingerer, I slept in the blind while the boys set out the decoy spread.  Success.

Physiognomy- N. Face. Real Usage: He is obsessed with his physiognomy, he is never without his trusty mirror.
Hunting Usage: I adore slathering black face paint on my physiognomy almost as much as I love archery.

Misanthrope: N.  One who hates mankind. Every animal I hunt. Real Usage: In my story, the beast is a misanthrope and beats humans to a pulp.
Hunting Usage: I can understand why deer are misanthropes, as we try to puncture them with incredibly fatal moving broadheads.

   Who knew that life in the outdoors could lead to one having such an extensive vocabulary?

Tree Stand Days

   I love country stores.  There is something in the way that they smell and invite hunters for miles around to explore their wares that makes me go there for no apparent reason. Given my affinity for things of this nature, it shouldn't be surprising that my dream is to own such a store with some sort of amazing archery and gun range. (Obviously not in the exact same vicinity, that would get really messy real quickly.)  DU is all about this, as he keeps looking at places that need such a company and things that we could stock.


   One day, early in our relationship, DU came up and visited my Yankee self in Lockport, NY.  For those of you who haven't been there, you haven't missed much.  Lockport consists of about 2 dozen streets.  The best restaurant was a hole-in-the-wall kind of place that serves the best steak I've ever had.  Besides that, Lockport doesn't have much to offer. The town is small and pretty urban. I lived above the garage of a pink Victorian house and had barely enough room for a bed, let alone anything else. We spent the majority of our time together exploring places, visiting my home town, or walking Titus (then the solitary puppy in my life). We would meander around town and inevitably someone would walk past.  If any eye contact was made, DU would nod or say hi. This sort of greeting is never really reciprocated in the north.  Hence, DU stuck out like an uncomfortable,sore thumb with his Indianian drawl and southern attitude. He'd speak and either no one could understand him or they just ignored him.  Ah yes, the hospitality of the north.


   During this visit,  I took DU to my favorite country store.  I was introduced to Johnson's before I moved to Lockport so by the time I moved, I was excited to live five minutes from it.  The shop has a log-cabin feel and has that down-home feeling that a lot of the big chain stores lack. The best aspect of Johnson's overall is the staff.  As a new hunter, I was a little scared with how I was going to be received in the hunting community.  Would I look like a poser? A novice idiot who had no idea what in the world I was doing? Or worst of all, did I resemble someone who hunting simply because the man in my life did?  Fortunately, the guys at Johnson's accepted me with open arms, with a lot of good-natured jokes thrown in.

     I bought my first bow and shotgun at that store from a man who passed away shortly after I met him.  I owe a lot to his tattooed self. I wish I had known him longer, as he was the most passionate hunter I'd ever come in contact with.  He would insist that my ex and I would stay late, after operating hours, to hang out if we needed our bows adjusted. When I killed my first deer, I knew he was watching from above, proud as a poppa bear. The rest of the guys knew me and I made them cookies at frequent intervals, simply to thank them for the superior service they provided. Leaving that store was terrible because it is impossible to get that kind of one-on-one attention at any of the big chain stores (worse yet- no one to make cookies for!)

   One worker who seriously loved to pick on this short huntress had recently called and told me there was something they specifically bought with me in mind.  DU was eager to see what they thought was quintessentially me, so I led him to Johnson's. As I walked in, I saw everyone's eyes widen in surprise.  This store had been the frequent stomping ground for myself and my ex. So, when I waltzed in with another guy, people were suspicious.  None more so than my favorite worker.  Fortunately, he knew me and knew what my situation was so he welcomed DU with open arms.  Once the formalities had been taken care of, we got to the good stuff.  Out came a pink camo shotgun that was so utterly not me that I loved it.

    As soon as DU saw it, he laughed.  He had been planning on ordering me the same firearm for my birthday but this took care of it.  We walked out of the store wanting to shoot it.  I looked at DU and said, "When we run our own store, we have to give employees time off to hunt and shoot guns."


   DU thought about this seriously and said, "Of course, we'll call them Tree Stand Days."

   After some discussion, we proclaimed that a Tree Stand Day is:

     Definition: (n [as in "Today is a Tree Stand Day],v [as in "I feel like Tree Standing this day"],adj [Two weeks from now feels like a Tree Standy Day])
     A 24 hour span in which something spectacular of a hunting nature occurs.  This includes but is not limited to: buying a firearm, bow, ammunition, or camouflage; venturing to a pro-shop or some sort of destination hunting store; scouting deer; hanging out on a rusty tailgate truck, drinking PBR, and discussing hunting.  Days spent hunting, even in a tree stand, do not constitute a Tree Stand Day. This statement comes from rule 7, section 8 of Tree Stand Day Bylaws which state that since hunting in a tree stand is commonplace for hunters, Tree Stand Days connote some special occurrence within the hunting realm, therefore hunting itself is NOT Tree Stand Day worthy.

   Since that pivotal day,  DU and I have celebrated many Tree Stand Days.  We never plan them, they just tend to happen naturally. It is only after we buy a gun, try out a new bow, or adventure to the distant Gander Mountain that we realize, Oh My Goodness! It's a Tree Stand Day!  We then celebrate by grilling or going somewhere different for dinner.

   My time with DU has been punctuated with random Tree Stand Days. We've been fishing at midnight.  We get excited buying random hunting implements and taking the boat out to scout for ducks.  Each day that we get to spend together, doing something we love, is considered not only a rockin' Tree Stand Day but also a blessing.

   Today is a very special and uncommon Tree Stand Day.  In a couple of hours, DU and I have reservations to the extremely expensive restaurant where we had our first date.  In an attempt to woo this interesting huntress, DU chose the spot, unaware of its price. He says now that he'd pay tenfold for that dinner again if I asked.  Of course, I don't ask but I know he isn't bluffing.  Almost a year later, the restaurant is a part of a special week that has cheap dinners at ritzy eating establishments.  We grabbed a table right at the perfect time and since we can't afford such a venture for our actual anniversary, I'm considering it as such.  Although we're not purchasing the latest camo or going to a gun show, I'm still dubbing it a Tree Stand Day. 

  Even as I sit here, 15 minutes until I leave work early in order to get pretty for tonight, I'm nervous- even more so than I was for our first date.  The first time I sat down with DU, I knew nothing of Tree Stand Days or how beautiful a duck call sounds like. I didn't know that anyone could love, understand, and support me like DU does. He tells me I'm beautiful when I'm covered in mud, feeling like I gained 48 pounds, my face expertly painted with black makeup and claims he wouldn't want it any other way. (I have an inclination he's lying about that one.) DU has taught me to stand on my own two feet, to think for myself, and that unconditional love exists. And for that, I'm eternally grateful.

  I implore you to be aware of the Tree Stand Days in your life, they're a blessing from God and should be treated as such.
  

UPDATE: We had a great time.  The food was absolutely amazing- a carnivore haven with perfect mint lamb tenderloin, amazing top sirloin and a copious amount of other meat beautifulness.

Passing on the Tradition

    I was an ugly  baby.  My mom doesn't deny it nor is she shy about constantly bringing it up.  She showed DU, the first time she had ever met him, an awesome snapshot of me when I was small.  Many believe that gigantic- saucer-like blue eyes are beautiful on a baby but unfortunately, mine made me look like a gelatinous alien. The problem was that I had immense (read: Grand Canyon size) dents on either side of my head.  Normally, this type of abnormality would be bypassed by any other family by dismissing my oddities as "special" or "unique".  Unfortunately for my self esteem and future embarrassments, my mom exploited my odd looks simply because my older brother set the standard years prior.

    "He was a beautiful baby" my mom would sigh, looking at his youthful pictures. All my life, I've heard that he could have graced the cover of some good-looking baby catalog. When DU performed the ancient ritual of "I'm dating your daughter so now I have to see every baby picture ever taken of her", my mom started by showing him pictures of my brother.  Each with a little mumble of how beautifully majestic my brother was, his unicorn-like-gloriousness shining through each photograph.  Once we were done looking at pictures, she sighed and stated, "and then this came along". Picture after picture, DU attempted to hold back his giggles. He'd point out how nice my dress looked, to which my mom responded, "Yes, but the dents!" Since my mom pointed out my deformities with every flip of the page, DU was allowed to poke fun at my suffering younger self.

This picture does not do my dents justice but it does illustrate what an unattractive child I just happened to be.

     Throughout the years when baby pictures came out and my mom gleefully, for the thousandth time, would proclaim to whomever was in the room that her daughter was defective, everyone had a good laugh. I know that all of this is in good fun, as my mom and I have an interesting sense of mother-daughter humor. Everyone was amused, except of course, my Nana. Good ol' Nana still assumes that damage control is needed after anyone mentions anything about dents. Nana, after reprimanding my mother, generally takes me aside to tell me how beautiful I was and reassure me that my brain just needed room to grow.  As luck would have it, Nana was right. My head grew into the dents, I'm fantastically brilliant and I look pretty normal.

    One would assume that after years of mental torture, I would not enjoy going through baby pictures.  On the contrary, I love looking at my little self doing things that I no longer remember. But there is one picture that I love more than the rest.  It is a smaller me next to a pond, fishing with an ancient-looking pole.

    My Granddad, Nana's husband of 51 years, loved to fish. Years after his death, Nana's living room still has pictures of him catching big sea fish.  There are old fish statues on the walls and in the basement, huge posters flank each side of the staircase, covered with kinds of fish.  Ever the sportsman, Granddad loved Wyoming.  I never knew, or even thought to ask, if he loved Cheyenne because of the fishing and hunting or because that is where he met Nana.  I'd like to think that it was a combination of the two.

   After I harvested my first deer on Thanksgiving, my mom was quick to fall back into her memories of  the day.  She told me that she remembered Granddad, her uncle and other men would go hunting in the morning while the women cooked.  They would cook or hunt, depending on their respective sexes, until about 2:00. The men would get home and immediately troop into the basement. Soon, the smells of gun oil overtook the scent of turkey roasting in the oven. (Today, my mom loves the odor of gun oil.)  The men thoroughly cleaned the firearms before ascending upstairs. Thanksgiving would then begin as the famished hunters tucked into a home-cooked meal. However, once my Granddad became a father to his two young daughters, he quit harvesting deer.  He would go out and help with a push or be a spotter, but you would not see him pull the trigger. This was because "Bambi" came out in theaters.  Granddad told my Nana that he had no idea how to tell his girls that he killed Bambi, so he stopped.  Giving up something like that for his family shows why my Granddad was (and is) such a great man.

   Years later, Granddad and a handful of buddies bought a parcel of land about two hours from where I grew up. Dubbed "The Land", it was a hunting oasis. The grounds were fruitful in terms of deer hunting while a pond stocked with fish made afternoons pass by in a fishing-induced haze. They built a monstrous hunting lodge on the property and filled it with various animal heads. In the center of the lodge stood a room-sized fireplace which looked into both the kitchen and living rooms.  The dining room table was even bigger than the fireplace. In accordance with hunting lodge law, a table must be big enough to hold one's entire family.  Hence, the eating area put the Knights of the Round Table to shame with their oval version. Granddad, legend has it, slept on an old army cot next to the fire.  He slumbered there by choice, as it was the warmest bed in the place.

   The co-owners divided the summer and winter months among the various families.  Any days outside of hunting season were open for the clans to visit and spend some time with mother nature. My family would go up for a week each summer.  My Granddad and Nana would drive up to visit us and supply our vittles for our stay. We spent time together, as a family- away from the bustle of normalcy. Granddad taught me how to fish at The Land.  In some cosmic sense as well, he taught me to love the outdoors. 

    When the above picture was taken, I was little. Truth be told, I don't remember much of my Granddad.  He went to the happy hunting ground when I was 10.  But, this picture shows me where I came from.  My Grandddad taught me how to fish that day but since then, the foundation that he built has flourished.  I love the outdoors and have a reverence for nature.  Although it took me years to figure out, hunting runs through my veins. Granddad wasn't there when I shot my first gun or took my hunter's safety course, but he instilled his passion for the outdoors within in me. Through my continued examples of safe, legal hunting, I have continued the tradition that my Granddad began when I was two years old. 

    A couple of months ago, I went to see Nana.  Every time I visit, I always poke around upstairs to see what I can find, from old photographs to even older letters and newspaper clippings.  DU had been talking to Nana but noticed my lengthy disappearance.  They both came to the rescue and found me sitting in an upstairs closet, looking at pictures of Granddad.  Nana started leafing through some of his old clothes, assuming that DU would want some of it.  When she came across his old hunting vest, the orange still vibrant, she asked if I wanted it.  I took the vest in my hands and turned it over.  Inside of his tag holder I found his tags from the year he passed away.  I told her I would be honored to hunt with Granddad looking over my shoulder.

    I was wearing that vest when I shot the deer on Thanksgiving that we never found.  I asked for Granddad's help while following the blood trail that came to a sudden halt. We never found the deer. But although he didn't help me that day, I'm assuming he's waiting until we can talk it over so he can tell me exactly how that deer got away.





This posting was inspired by OBN's Childhood Outdoors Writing Prompt.

Things That Go Bump In the Night

   When I was in high school, I worked at Seabreeze, a water park in Rochester.  I was a lifeguard which I, at the time, thought was the coolest job known to man.  I accumulated a gaggle of friends, all of whom were native to the area but hailed from different schools.  I went to one of the three private high schools so my selection of friends was limited at best.  In reality, I hated everyone that went to my school. Being the only hockey-playing-1996-Oldsmobile-driving girl amongst hordes of BMW-driving rich football players and cheerleaders made me a little bit of an outcast.  I had a small group of close friends but this job made finding people I could actually stand relatively easy. Hence, I took advantage of this heaven-sent situation by blindly following whomever told me to go anywhere. 

   One night in late July, one of my new compatriots rallied a bunch of us to visit White Lady's Castle.  This infamous spot lays just outside of our work, about 5 minutes up the creepiest hill I had ever seen. The story went that in the 1800's a woman's daughter was brutally raped.  The girl disappeared without a trace.  Her mother, obviously distraught, searched high and low for her offspring but never found anything. The White Lady soon gave up hope and committed suicide by jumping off the hill that we had just walked up.  It was said that people have seen the White Lady walking with her two German shepherds late at night- searching for the daughter she had lost.

   I'm terrified of my shadow, let alone ghost mothers and her canine companions.  Therefore, with quaking knees and a gigantic amount of regret, I allowed my friends to drag me into the forest where The White Lady's house actually stood. Given that I was underage, stupid and care-free, I also accepted offerings of alcohol.

   Alcohol + Ghost stories + Being where said stories took place + Being creeped out by all things supernatural= A very freaked out future huntress

    We stayed a couple of hours.  Besides the boys running around to spook us delicate girls into emitting high-pitched pig squeals, nothing much happened.

   Years later, DU and I set up the trail cam in order to scout out The Owner's land.  I briefly wondered if we would see anything unexplainable.  Months passed and besides a 7-point deer who absolutely loved the camera, he showed up in 76% of the photos, nothing of any weird quality appeared.

   I figured that nothing shows up in trail cams except deer and a random squirrel here or there until today. Hard at work, I noticed the following picture on one of my friend's Facebook walls:

  Obviously, as with anything weird or creepy- I was originally a tad squeamish.  But when I got to looking at it, the thing seemed a little fake... or is it?



  Once I was interested and those pesky GREs that I should be studying for suddenly seemed a lot less important,  I started searching creepy trail cam pics.

  This was one that was posted just a few days ago.  Apparently, a hunter sent this to his buddy who posted it.  The pictures he extracted from the cam were normal until this barefoot woman stood in the middle of the mud, walked around a little bit and disappeared.

Full story and picture source here:

 Creepy girl stands in middle of woods

   I showed these pics around at work and one of our graphic designers showed me this:

  She said she had found it a couple days after I mentioned something about trail cams. Obviously this is some sort of picture of a ghost and a deer looking at it. As one who works primarily with image-altering computer programs, I asked her what she thought of the quality of the pictures.  She said it was difficult to decipher and could not make a judgment call. I want to say it's fake because I'm a cynic but I'm not completely convinced.

 And then there's this monster caught mid-hunt on camera- it boggles the mind to figure out why she was in the middle of the woods, in full camo, with a bow in her hand.

  Then again, trail cams can capture non-paranormal images that boggle the mind and pose the age- old question:  Do deer dance? And if so, how well?

   After mulling all this over, I got to thinking that there must be millions of trail cams that run at all hours of the day in small corners of the world across the globe.  So, those bogus ghost hunters who make millions faking being scratched by spirits should be setting these things up all over the haunted woods in order to catch glimpses of real paranormal activity. Just think- had people had advanced trail cams back when Big Foot was huge news-instant evidence!

   Now I haven't seen anything abnormal on my trail cam- but have you?

Hunting Does Not Require Product Placement

  What a day.  Today was the first day that I was able to get out for urban archery.  Luckily enough, the land that DU and I hunt lays right in the newly appointed heard management program. Realizing that this was my second chance to get a deer, I finally got my Hoyt re-strung. The bow now looks how it should be manufactured, the ugly pink stings replaced with mud-colored tan and black.  My bow looked sharp and I was ready to hunt.  I sat out for the majority of the day, seeing at least half dozen deer, but nothing within shooting distance.  Shortly before the sun set, I stood up in my stand, knowing that the deer would most likely start moving before the orange orb descended into the horizon.  Just as my excitement reached its zenith, I heard the unmistakable sound of a car engine.  I watched as a maroon suburban glided by the fence line.  Two individuals got out of the van, walked across the fence and up onto the posted private property I am given permission to hunt.

   I immediately called DU, who in turn contacted The Owner.  After the call, I scanned the area for deer and the trespassers.  Although I have a weapon and love hunting alone, when strangers walk onto my land, I feel vulnerable.  The trio walked in an oblong circle and retreated.  Just as DU pulled into the land, the trespassers left. 


   Hours later, following a beautiful meal of freshly harvested duck, I'm still a little shaken by the trespassers.  The hunt was successful, as I saw deer and was able to ascertain where exactly they were hiding.  However, it was ruined when strangers, without any sort of approval from The Owner, waltzed into the woods and destroyed any chance that I could harvest anything. 

   A few days before this hunt, I felt the same sort of browbeaten way while watching outdoor television.  DU had been feeling under the weather so we spent Friday night in, watching The Bone Collector.  I was excited, as this episode was the second part of the Alaska moose hunt that I had seen a week prior.  It has been my dream for as long as I can remember to live in Alaska, so anything about the majestic state immediately draws my attention.

   Before the episode started, DU reminded me, "Get ready for all the new products, because the spring brings all the new hunting shows with their new gear."

   And did it ever.  The entire episode was chock-full of product placement.  Now, don't get me wrong- I get that these people need to make money but this show brought it to an extreme I've never seen. 

   Each member of The Brotherhood Of The Bone Collector (which I've always found a little off-putting; what about a Sisterhood? Girls hunt too- I'm not sure if they're aware.)  would hold up his weapon after a harvest and say, "Gee Golly, without this [insert the name of the free gear he received to promote it], I never would've gotten that [moose, 18 point deer, 800 pound black bear, mastodon, etc].  Thanks, [ever generous outdoor outfitter]".

    I figured that I had enough until the next episode came on.  The Brotherhood, along with some rocking female Olympic shooters, ventured to Georgia to hunt some doves.  I momentarily forgave the brotherhood for their product placement and figured that the girls would add some integrity to the show.  Unfortunately, the mere few mentions of the girls severely out shooting the boys was the solitary high point.   The nadir of the entire performance occurred when the brotherhood decided to do a shoot-out to see who would have to wear a ridiculous outfit for the rest of the day.  One of the hunters was shown opening a gun case before the contest.

    Looking straight at the camera, he utters, "Well, would you look at that? The Remington Versa Max will be perfect for this shoot-out."**

    Is this a joke?

    I can take a small hint at a great product, even 5 minutes of ongoing commercials (especially the ones that are funny, witty and true to the sport) , but this was too much to handle.  I never, for as long as I have hunted or will hunt, have harvested an animal after saying, to no one in particular, "Wow, this Hoyt Vicxen will surely kill this deer dead.  Good thing I was smart enough to buy it at [insert name of Hoyt supplier]". 

    Shortly after the shameless sales ploy, we turned the show off an opted to watch our favorite, Duck Commander.  While the guys are usually outfitted in their namesake garb and have commercials about their wares, the majority of their shows are bare-bones.  They document duck hunting in its most beautiful form, sans 15 minutes of self-gratuitous product placement.  Early morning, low-budget hunting shows illustrate the same sense of a harvest-centered, non-trophy-hunting.  The early years of Real Tree Road Trips were full of raucous deer camp conversations, beer, and good harvests.  Unfortunately, its predecessor focuses more on the products to be sold rather on the hunt.

   I realize that these guys have to feed their families but is it completely necessary to continually throw guns and camo I'll never be able to afford in my face every four seconds?  If I'm watching a hunting show, it is because I want to see hunting, not go shopping.  Commercials are made to sell things and as of late, it seems that the popular high-budget shows yearn to reach the same goal.

  Just as the trespassers ruined my hunt, it seems, at least to me, that these "hunting" shows are slowly reducing this sport we love into half-hour long infomercials about the latest, greatest and most expensive gun or the most effective (and of course, expensive) camouflage.  While I hope that new shows will curb this trend, it's unlikely that will occur.

   As for me, I'll stick to duck hunting and those fantastic low-budget early-morning shows.  They show real hunters doing what they love and to me, that's perfect. Hunting does not require any sort of product-placement.  It sells itself.  Those who hunt know that it isn't the camo one uses, the gun one shoots or the ammo one buys that makes a person get out of bed irrationally early to sit in a stand for twelve hours.  It isn't the name of the person on the bow or the product that is endorsed by a particular show, one hunts because he or she lives, breathes, and loves it.

   For the sake of the sport, I pray that hunting will not be directed by product-placement but by the natural instinct of those who love it.  Just like trespassers invading on an otherwise perfect hunt, these shows mar an otherwise perfect and ancient human practice which is best left alone to its own devices.

 


** This is a close paraphrase to what was actually said during the show. While it isn't verbatim, it does illustrate the sales-centered nature of his statement.

*** During the creation of this post, I have kept in mind what I will do, if I ever am able to be blessed enough to hunt for a living.  While future, famous me will be more than happy to promote good, affordable gear in commercials, I would refrain from making extraneous sales pitches during a hunt.  As I said, I understand why televised hunters push to sell products, but the way the majority of them do it is deplorable.

The Perfect Decoy Retrieval Mitten: An Off-Center Review

   I think I may have to be studied or something but I have to say, I have terribly small hands and feet.  Hence, my extremities have a tendency to get seriously cold extremely quickly.  This was a major problem during my intense hockey years when we'd play in rinks that were held up with one wall in the middle of January during a sub-zero blizzard.  No matter how hard I skated or how many times I'd rub my hands together, nothing could keep me warm.

  Once I started waterfowl hunting, I realized that having appendages that tend to freeze after mere moments of being immersed into some sort of cold climate would be a serious problem.  A month ago, we went hunting and I was in charge of retrieving decoys.  The water temperature was close to freezing, illustrated by the decoys I picked up that were covered with a white frost. As I meandered through the water, I came to realize that my gloves were soaked and completely useless.  I climbed into the boat and surveyed the damage.  My hands were lobster red and cold to the touch.  Minutes later I shoved them into DU's muff and experienced that terrible needle-like burning that accompanies the slow thaw of a body part.  I then decided that it was the perfect time to invest in a new pair of gloves.

  Unfortunately, Christmas was nearing and I had no extra funds to speak of in order to purchase a nice pair of hand warming implements.  Then the fantastic and ever-generous Outdoor Blogger Network came to the rescue. OBN has connected my blog with other like-minded individuals through their dedication to making the outdoor blogging world a tightly-knit one. A few months back, I noticed that Rebecca and Joe started weekly Wednesday giveaways.  I never win anything, but I figured that throwing my name in periodically would make my odds of getting cool stuff a little greater.  In December, I noticed that OBN must have made some sort of error because they were giving away far too many awesome things for a regular Wednesday. 

   I scrolled down and noticed a pair of gloves that looked perfect for decoy retrieval.  The Frabill FXE Snosuit Gauntlet Mitt immediately piqued my interest.  The mitts are marketed for ice fishing but I figured that putting in for them wouldn't hurt. I went back about my business and completely forgot about the contest.  Sunday night rolled around and just like any red-blooded American, I was watching football.  The Colts were down so I occupied myself by checking OBN.  Low and behold, I won the Frabill mitts. 

   Screaming, yelling, and a lot of running around the house ensued as the dogs stared at DU, frightened that their mom changed into a deranged crazy person.  I quickly wrote to Rebecca and Joe, thanking them for the chance to win the gloves.  I also implored, if it wouldn't be too much trouble, for the company to send the smallest gloves they could.

  Christmas came and went.  The day after we celebrated the birth of Jesus, a package came. 

   Let me say this now, I love mail.  I don't know what it is, but I absolutely adore receiving things from those nicely dressed US Postal People.  Anytime I'm on the accepting end of a package, I turn into the dad from A Christmas Story.  My mouth waters as I image what could lay within the confines of the cardboard walls. No matter how small or large it is, I always think... It could be a bowling alley! Or a leg lamp!  Hence, the fact that Frabill sent me something, it could have been anything, really, scored major points on my end.

   Once I got over the excitement, I opened the box.  Upon initial inspection of the mitts, I was a little downtrodden. The tag said small but my hands are child sized. The mitts didn't fit my hands, they were pretty large but that's to be expected with hands like mine.  The review would end here except that the ingenious people at Frabill added a cinching strap to the wrist. After using said strap to cinch further up my arm, my fingers reached the end of the mitts with a little room left over.  I showed them off to my kitchen appliances and they seemed pretty impressed. 

   When it got time to finally test the mitts, the weather was chilly but not freezing. Over the weekend, a cold front was moving in and was expected to reach Charlotte late in the evening.  DU believed that this would bring the ducks in so we ventured forth with optimistic outlooks.  However, the morning hunt was disappointing.  I went out to snatch up the last of the duck butts after the hunt yielded nothing.  As I waded out, the water reached my knees.  I plunged my Frabill mitts into the cold water and felt nothing.  My hands were bone-dry and actually warm.  Another cinching string encircles the upper part of the mitt so even if the duck's weight fell deeper than expected, one's arm will stay dry.  The best aspect of the mitts is their magical way of repelling water even after just being in contact with it. DU's gloves have been in major need of replacement, as they constantly leak.  He tried out the gloves and immediately noticed that they kept his hands dry and warm, albeit the small size of the mitts.

    The Frabill Mitts got an unexpected second go later that afternoon.  We didn't intend on going back out to hunt but during lunch, snow fell.  This type of quick change was just what we needed.  We packed everything up once again but this time, we took the boat to a spot DU had seen a lot of ducks. I really wanted to work the mitts so I leapt out of the boat, as well as one wearing rubber waders can leap, to set the spread up.  For the first time since I started duck hunting, I was able to set out the decoys and pick foliage out of the water to shelter the blind without coming down with a severe case of "My hands are cold, turn on the heater". Over and over my  mitts delved into the snow-covered water, only to come up dry.

   The biggest test for the hand wear of any duck hunter is the ability of the mitts to assist in the unraveling and raveling of the decoy's weights. If the mitts hinder this process, they are pretty much useless. The majority of our decoy's weights are attached to a carabeener which allow for easier retrieval. The others are decoys whose weights are connected to a line which needs to be wrapped around the decoy after the hunt is complete.  I tried out both with the mitts and I was impressed with how effectively they worked.  Not only were my hands dry but wrapping the weights was no issue.  Once the decoys are ready for transport, we throw them into a mesh bag.  This mesh bag is the bane of my existence as I ritualistically forget that it sinks when no decoys are in it.  Generally, I abhor this task but with the Frabill mitts, it took a few seconds to feel out the bag and my hand didn't freeze off. By the time the hunt ended, the temperature dropped 20 degrees. After so much time in the water, the mitts started to allow some coldness to seep in but overall, my hands stayed warm.

   Days later, the mitts got their final test. We woke up Monday morning to a half foot of snow.  While this would generally cause me to quiver with fear as I knew my hands would freeze, I was excited to see how the mitts would work.  Throughout the hunt, my hands were warm.  However, as the mitts aren't gloves, I was completely unable to actually shoot a gun while wearing them.  Of course, this apparel is not made to shoot guns so this can't be held against them.  To keep my hands warm, I kept them in the mitts until it was time to shoot.

   I was wearing the mitts when I harvested my first duck.  So, if you're looking for a pair of lucky gloves, the Frabill Gauntlet Mitt is your perfect choice!

   So, if I were to give the mitts a rating from 0 to 34, I'd give them a 31.  This numbering system is pretty obscure but I think rating systems are ridiculous anyways.  The mitts kept my hands warm and dry, even in freezing water after rounds of picking up decoys.  The length of the mitts was extremely advantageous in grasping sinking mesh bags and decoy weights.  The mitts are created for ice fishing. So obviously not being able to shoot my gun can't be counted against my overall review of the mitts.  The mitts were really big and although the cinching came in handy, my hands still did not properly fit.  I checked the website and was not able to find any apparel that is designed for women.  While this is an epidemic among outdoor outfitters and women are forced to do what they can to find what they need, it would be nice if more companies took our needs into account.  Besides the size, I am overjoyed that OBN was gracious enough to allow me to review these gloves.  Although the Frabill mitts are for ice fisherman, I'd definitely suggest duck hunters to invest in them to assist in the colder aspects of the sport we love.

A Day of Firsts

   I've been living in North Carolina for about seven months now.  There are many things that have surprised me thus far.  From fried pickles to moonshine, I've tried more new things since I've moved down here than an entire lifetime in Western New York.  Today,  I experienced a day of firsts, starting with a city shut down because of snow and ending with the harvest of my first duck.

   In the past, I've only done deer hunting because I only knew deer hunters.  When I met DU, I was thrown into the world of waterfowl hunting.  I didn't know if I really had a passion for it until today.

  We woke up this morning to a half foot of beautiful, fluffy, white snow on the ground.  The wind blew and for a brief second, I seriously considered ensconcing myself back into the covers and resuming my restful slumber.   But I figured that going out in the snow was something I never before had experienced so I might as well get out of bed and at least take a shot at hunting in the freezing atmosphere. I found all of the necessary implements for keeping warm and ventured out into my car.  I assumed that I was going to go to work so DU and I took separate cars. 

   I grew up in Rochester, NY and went to college in Niagara Falls, NY.  Hence, I know snow.  I've driven in it before I got my license and even got close to running twice into the same pole in a CVS parking lot in two feet of snow.  Driving in the white stuff is amazing because the people who are scared of it stay off the road and I'm free to drive the speed limit at my leisure.  However, I've never seen anything close to what I saw this morning.  The snow was falling heavily when I flipped my Jeep into 4-wheel-drive.  Listening to the local country station, I noticed that the DJs were saying things like "stay home if you can, avoid roads as much as possible, and if it isn't an emergency, don't drive" as I barreled down the interstate at 65 mph.  No one, I mean no one, was on the roads.  It was no shocker, as the roads looked like they had never been plowed.  North Carolina's system of dealing with the snow would cripple Buffalo, NY for months on end.  Fortunately, DU and I both have more than enough experience in driving through inclement weather so we got to our hunting spot in no time.

   The pond on the land was covered with a thin layer of slush so DU was quick to introduce me to the ways of breaking ice.  While he covered the larger areas, I concentrated on breaking up the perimeter.  The process was relatively easy until I reached areas of stronger ice.  Although I felt like I had broken my ankle on the first patch of tough ice, I continued to push through.   Once the water was exposed and our duo became a trio, we were ready for the ducks.

   Myself, DU, The Owner of the land and a buddy of DU, his dog, Cricket, and Avery piled into the blind.  DU and The Owner called as I waited.  Groups and Groups of ducks flew overhead but nothing responded to our calls.

   The time started reaching when I'd have to leave for work when my phone went off.  A co-worker (the one who sings all the time) called to tell that since the roads were bad, our poppa bear of a boss told her to let everyone know that there was no reason to brave the roads.  The first time I'd ever had a snow day from work never came at a more opportune time.

   Just minutes later, a group of six ducks started circling our blind.  We had let the dogs out to run and warm up moments before so their black forms spooked the ducks.  Just ten yards from the blind, the ducks flared up, flying so close to my gun that I could have waved the butt of my gun in their direction and knocked one out.  The ducks flew away, leaving us disheartened.

  I really hoped that this day would turn things around.  The drought through deer season was unbearable and duck season didn't look promising.  Just as I gave up hope, I went to walk around the blind when I heard DU belt out a series of calls.  I ran back into the blind as The Owner nudged me hard.  Two ducks already plopped into the water and at least 20 others were circling.  It was the most beautiful and memorizing thing I'd ever seen.

   I grabbed my gun and held it up, ready for direction.  Shaking like a earthquake, I braced myself.  The Owner gave me small bits of advice as we all sat motionless, watching the birds work the pond.  "Find the target and shoot at it. Wait. Don't rush it. Breathe."

   DU, as discretely as possible, told me to stand up slowly and choose one.  I stood up, still shaking and realized that the grass in front of me obscured my view of the pond.  Panicked, I didn't know what to do.  DU told me to move over and he slowly took my spot.

   I saw the ducks who had initially landed in the water and lined up my gun.  Breathing as steadily as I could, I finally stopped quaking.  DU finally told me to take the shot.

   Chaos ensued as The Owner, DU and I shot at the fleeing birds.

   Once the snow cleared, I saw the duck I had shot at laying motionlessly on the icy sludge.  Just feet away lay DU's duck.

    At first, I didn't believe that I had shot it.  Then came the celebration.  DU and The Owner were more excited than I was as they yelled, hoot and hollered.

    I ran out to see my handiwork.  In my over-exuberance, I tripped over a small ditch in the snow, falling flat on my face.  Since nothing could deter my happiness, I picked myself up and continued to run to my harvest. 

   DU pulled my duck out of the pond, handing it to me.  He retrieved his as well and we realized that we both shot the same kind of duck.  Two fully mature American black ducks.  A rare, sought-after type in North Carolina whose blue feathers turn emerald green, my first bird was absolutely beautiful.   DU's was a hoss as it easily outweighed my bird by one pound.  But it didn't matter.  My first kill was 100% mine.  His feathers were gorgeous and the shot was purely perfection.  The bullets hit his lower head and neck, leaving everything of value intact.  As I do with any harvest, I walked away from DU and said a prayer of thanks to the waterfowl for the meal he would provide.

   The rest of the hunt passed by just as the beginning of the morning had.  We didn't see any more ducks but the time gave us ample opportunity to re-create my kill.  The Owner was particularly amused that I was shaking so hard it seemed that I wouldn't be able to take the shot.  DU looked happier than a pig in slop as we finally called it quits.  He kissed me before retrieving the decoys, telling me he was so proud.


   Hours later as I write this, I'm still shaking just re-telling the events of the morning.  Waterfowl hunting is beautiful in its strategy, difficulty, and aggravation.  I have never been privy to so much majestic nature in my life until I started hunting waterfowl. 

   As for now, however, I'm going to take frequent trips to the garage to visit my harvest, just to make sure that he is still there.  Between jaunts I'll be researching taxidermy shops to make my first harvest a permanent fixture. I'll never forget this day.  My first snow day off of work, the first time I broke ice, and of course, my first duck.

Adventures in Manlandia

    It's been a long day.  DU and I went hunting pretty much all day.  I'd love to really go into detail about how insane everything was and tell amazing stories of the fantastic conversations but I figure that pictures, especially moving ones, speak louder than words.  

    Early in the morning, I finally got the chance to try out the gloves I won from the Outdoor Blogger Network.  The review is coming but I was really jazzed about trying them out- so excited, in fact, that for this photo op, I'm putting my left glove on the wrong hand.  On a related note, I'm aware that my hat is awesome and that I slightly resemble the marshmallow puff woman. 

  Everything was frozen in a beautiful way.

  After we took a break for lunch, we took the boat out on this majestic 32 degree day with E4.

 He was excited to look at the sky.

 DU spent the majority of the time calling for ducks that never came.

  And I... well..

   It only took a few hours to realize that the ducks just weren't going to fly.  It was then that I was introduced to "Manlandia".   Manlandia is the territory of our john boat, ruled by King DU.  In Manlandia, men rule and women make pies. While DU is king, E4 is his right-hand man and assists him in all imperative decisions concerning the powerful nation, ie- beer to drink, where to hunt, tune of the Manlandia anthem.  I was completely unaware of the presence of such a place but, dear reader, it exists. 

  Manlandia's national anthem is a rap of sorts.  Emitted entirely from duck calls. It goes something like this...

  Or like this..

    But what would Manlandia be without some ingenious ideas like harpooning ducks, lassoing deer and deep discussions concerning the relative size differences between men and women's brains?  This compelling video documents the caliber of ideas that are borne in the blind and some fantastic visuals of my boots.

NOTE: As an English major, I do understand that my use of "predictable" in this conversation makes no sense.  Please understand that I was attempting to grasp at some understanding of these ridiculous ideas and couldn't process them effectively while talking at the same time.


   Yes, friends, it was a full day of interesting conversations and new revelations. It's pretty shocking that we didn't get anything, as our calls sounded like a waterfowl rave that could be heard for miles. However,  I look forward to my next sojourn into Manlandia, if, of course, my visa is still accepted.


NOTE:  Things said in Manlandia stay in Manlandia.  This is because that when men are in Manlandia, they resort back to their cavemen counterparts and say things that generally would not be said nor even thought of in mainstream society.  In retrospect, DU claims that he does not think that women have small brains.  But he does really want to attempt to institute "lasso season" for deer.

Hunting Drug Dealers with Chuck Norris Jokes

     It's the beginning of August in North Carolina.  My northern blood has yet to get fully acquainted with the sweltering, humid heat of the south. It is reaching 102 degrees and it's only 11am. I'm 25 feet above the ground, peering over my new throne atop one of our front-yard trees.  Our deer target, a sad looking thing with more holes in it than swiss cheese, stands 35 yards away in a path we meticulously mow.  We have no idea who owns the land but since our landlord gave us the go-ahead, we made our own little 3D range right in our front yard.  This redneck inventiveness has its perks, as I had never, before today, used a climber tree stand in order to practice archery. Also, watching deer from the surrounding woods come to check out the target is highly entertaining. I always imagine that when the confused deer walk up, they get excited because they assume that it's their buddy Shecky.  After a few moments of deer communication that goes nowhere, it is clear that they're wondering why he's giving them the cold shoulder. It's like Bambi Soap Operas play out in our front yard. However, the best part of our target set up is that our neighbors each have become increasingly more afraid of us, as wielding weapons with sharp, pointy ends on one's front yard tends to do.

   We're 98% sure that our neighbors deal drugs so any and all of our requests have been swiftly followed. I'm the least anti-drug person in the world, and if they were nice drug-dealing neighbors, we wouldn't have a problem.  But when they were using our front lawn as a parking lot for their illegal activities, action had to be taken.  While DU is more prone to making bodily threats, I'm more cunning about it.  If an unfamiliar car came and parked on our lawn, I would fetch my bow.  After the brief 5 minute visit, a pot-loving individual would emerge from the drug lord's cave.  I chose this time to made loud comments like "That was a quick deal" or "I wonder how long a jail term sentence is for possession these days?" and waving after releasing my perfectly placed arrow. My most fond memory happened months later when a particularly quick deal occurred. It was early afternoon when Avery and I were in the front yard.  I was attempting to get Avery to understand that the dead trainers were not her chew toys but an object to continually fetch. She was more focused on smelling every stem of grass until she saw a figure emerging from next door.  She immediately took notice.  Of course, in the loudest voice possible, I said, "You smell drugs, girl? Do ya? With all of your training, you'll make a great K9 dog."  The man in question looked in terror at my 3 month old puppy and fled.  It's no surprise that our neighbors' daily visitors have ceased coming around and it seems that the whole operation has recently moved out. But I digress.

    I'm a sweaty ball of huntress and I hate DU for making me climb this stupid tree.  But, I've made it up and now that my body is done shaking, it's time to shoot.  After 5 arrows cleanly went through the still standing deer, I look down for some help. I'm greeted with the sight of my unfortunate future if I deem this relationship worthy of a long term commitment.  DU and E4 are sitting in fold-out lawn chairs, drinking PBR and quoting Chuck Norris jokes. A red cooler is situated between them, lest one of them runs out and is forced to actually stand up in order to get more beer.  Focused completely on their phones, I feel like I'm watching humanity digress into a lower life form before my eyes. 

           "Hey guys... can I get some help?"

          "Chuck Norris can do a handstand without using his hands" says DU, barely restraining his laughter.

           "When Chuck Norris does a pushup, he isn't lifting himself up, he's pushing the earth down" replies E4 after spitting out half of his PBR.

          DU laughs hard and slowly gets out, "Chuck Norris played Russian Roulette with a loaded gun", he pauses dramatically before finishing, "and won." 

           "GUYS... can someone go get my arrows, please?"

            "Hunny, if you were Chuck Norris, the arrows would come to you." yells DU.

           "DOES IT LOOK LIKE I CAN PERFORM A ROUNDHOUSE KICK FROM UP HERE? GO GET MY DAMN ARROWS!"

             My request is met with muted giggles. Fantastic. Perfectly mature. Then I hear:

            "Baby....  why did the chicken cross the road?"

            "I'm not answering that."

            E4 answers for me, "To run away from Chuck Norris' roundhouse kicks!!"

           Once again, the two grown men squeal like 14 year old teenie boppers at a Rascal Flatts concert. They each fall from their chairs, clutching their chests as gales of laughter billow from their mouths, beers still up-right, not a drop spilled. 

         I immediately wish that I still had one arrow with which to threaten the pair but unfortunately, they are all still lodged into a very unfortunate Shecky .

            I take this perfect opportunity to gently remind DU that our relationship as of that moment is teetering on ending, "[DU'S FULL NAME] IF YOU APPRECIATE BEING IN A RELATIONSHIP AND DON'T WANT END UP WITH A STUPID DEER-LOVING GIRL WHO DOESN'T KNOW WHAT A BROADHEAD IS AND GETS MAD WHEN YOU WANT TO GO DUCK HUNTING, YOU WILL GO GET MY ARROWS BEFORE I MOVE BACK TO NEW YORK!!!!!!!"

           E4, who at the time did not know me as well as he does now and saw my outburst as a real threat, gets up to retrieve my arrows. 

           For a second, I believe that I have won.  I got a little over-confident so I mutter,

           "Chuck Norris is stupid." 

         Looking grief-stricken, both men look up at me with the same disbelief that children display after finding out that babies don't come from storks. DU stands up and with the dedication of a true manly man replies,

           " Woman.... I will have you know that Chuck Norris is a god amongst mere mortals. He graduated from college in ONE HOUR. The man eats DANGER for breakfast and once won a stare down via a walkie talkie.  He can break water in half and yet you have the gall to utter that Chuck Norris is STUPID? I will not have this kind of talk in my home.  Go back to New York, you stupid Yankee- if you can't appreciate roundhouse kicks, amazing mustaches and perfectly brimmed cowboy hats, then you don't belong in the south."

           After the closing of his little monologue, he storms into the garage and I hear the distinct sound of the fridge opening and the slight fizz of a beer being unleashed.

      E4 returns my arrows but refuses to look at me, as if I have deeply offended him.

     As fate would have it, at that moment a car rolls onto our lawn.  A  frat boy wearing loafers, pink plaid pants and a white polo strolls out of his BMW.  He saunters down the slight hill and into the pot palace.

     I quickly realize that God has divinely intervened in order to salvage my good standing with Chuck Norris. I had time to clear my name of any wrong-doing so I had to act quickly. I realize that frat boy's appallingly expensive car is right near the tree I'm sitting in.  The leaves behind me are lush and are the perfect natural camouflage in order to conceal my sneaky form.  E4 walks away, obviously going to console DU for his lack of competency in choosing a girlfriend.

   The moment E4 disappears, frat boy reappears.  Turning the entire experience into an actual hunt, I wait the appropriate amount of time until my target is in perfect position.  I then shot my bow at the target.  The target makes a loud THWAK and the frat boy jumps.  He looks around for the source of the attack but can't find one.  I then bellow, as loud as possible,

   "CHUCK NORRIS PROTECTS THIS HOUSE WITH ROUNDHOUSE KICKS.  PARK ON OUR LAWN TO BUY DRUGS ONE MORE TIME AND YOU'LL EXPERIENCE WHAT HAPPENED TO EVERY OTHER EXTINCT SPECIES ON EARTH."

   Again, not able to find the source of the voice, frat boy throws his car open and almost hits a tree on his way out of our cul-de-sack.

  I do a celebratory dance and skillfully climb down the tree.

  At the base, DU is waiting with a cold PBR.  As a peace offering, he hands it to me and says that I did Chuck Norris proud.  And maybe... just maybe I'll make it in the south after all.


   

I'm on Twitter!!!!

....and I'm not entirely sure why. 

This may prove to be one of the shorter entries in my blogging career but generally brevity is the best way to go. 

So yeah.

I'm on Twitter! 

That was a lesson in unnecessary redundancy, which is redundant in itself.

Anyways.

I have no idea how it works or why exactly one needs to limit his or her thoughts to 140 characters but hey, if it can get me more readers, what the heck!

By clicking on this picture of me trying to steal a broken-down tractor, you will be directed to my shiny new Twitter page.  

I'm going to fill it with even more random ramblings than I feature in my blog so it may be worthwhile for you to follow!

Happy Hunting!