Hunters Say the Darndest Things

    Writing this post wasn't really a high priority on my to-do list today.  My laundry pile is reaching taller than I and there are dishes piled in the sink that DU swears he'll get to before returning to work tomorrow.  The dogs are outside, probably covered from head to paw in drenched, blood red clay, waiting for me to let them in and wipe their dirty claws off.  The bed hasn't been made and I know our hardwood floors are covered with a thin layer of canine shed.  Besides all of my house mouse duties, I barely ever, if ever, do two posts in two days.  It seems impatient and doesn't allow the throngs of my dear readers a chance to peruse the nugget of literature I posted just yesterday.  However, I just walked outside;  a meaningless activity, really, walking out of your home, that should not compel one to the written word but what forced me to my computer now is the sight that reached my retinas.

    Wineglass in hand (a Cabernet Sauvignon filling the glass' space to its midsection, a very modest pour if I do say so), I just got done sweeping the remnants of the cucumber the dogs refused to eat when I was drawn to our sad wooden porch.  DU sat, reclining, Bud Light Can resting in his open hand, on our badly stained Adirondack furniture.  He was barefoot, rocking back and forth slowly, enjoying the finally rain-free night.  His old .22 sat by his side, lest our upstairs neighbors needing some discouraging from entering our ceiling. His eyes searched the tree tops, waiting to blast near enough one of the rodents to illustrate that our home was not for the freeloading type.  I made a crack about how he looked like he was perfect for the cover of "Hillbilly Living" magazine when I realized this story would make a perfect introduction for this post, introducing my latest video.

    My life is not one that is brimming with dull moments.  DU makes me laugh, the dogs made each moment filled with joy, and our lives are filled with happiness.  My domestic partner and I are never ones to hold back in terms of jokes at the others expense or a quick remark that makes the other burst out laughing.  This sort of good-feeling, witty banter knows no bounds, especially when it comes to hunting.  If you remember, some time ago I posted one of my first videos, which took place in a magical land dubbed "Manlandia".  I didn't know how to edit then and the only shot during the entire feature is of my feet but the verbal content is fantastic.  Men talking about man things, women making pies and having small brains; each iota of speech spoken in a separate world, the realm of hunting.

    This video covers just that, the world of hunting in its finest and funniest.

     If you missed it, the trailer I created for hunting season 2011 is below.  I didn't have the best segue to introduce it so I figured this is as good as anything!

As always, if you have any questions, concerns, bravos or job offers, contact me at huntlikeyourehungry@gmail.com!

The Rodent Assasins

   Before becoming the mother to three fantastic pooches, I never gave a thought to their primal nature as creatures of the wild.  Titus was just a rescue dog who quivered like an earthquake anytime anyone, especially a male, came to pet him.  His only adopted predecessor was Howie, a retired racing greyhound with a predilection towards anything having to do with being a real dog (ie: fetching, looking cute in Santa costumes, or doing tricks of any sort). So, without even meaning to, I became accustomed to dogs who were far removed from their canis lupus roots, so much so that the actions of my current canine companions shocked me but also made me think.

   As I type, creating these words for your enjoyment, Avery is standing on the rain soaked porch, the moisture seeping into the decrepit wood like a dessicated sponge, becoming increasingly more wet as the drops fall upon her upturned snout.  She is emitting small squeaks that are punctuated by big barks.  Standing by her, immobile, is Oscar, the smiling, howling pit bull who adores standing in the rain, allowing the precipitation to create golden tributaries on his white fur.  Titus, when kindled from deep within our bed's covers, often comes in as backup, bringing his own brand of interesting whining noises to the tale. If I were to look out into the dreary day, I am positive the trio are staring intently, barking occasionally, at our upstairs nuisance neighbor, a squirrel who has plagued the lives of our dogs since we moved to the cabin.

   Before moving here, I was under the impression that Titus loved squirrels. Anytime he and I would take walks in downtown Lockport, NY, he would strain against his leash in a vain attempt to reach the rodent who had scurried up the nearest tree.  If he got to one, all he wanted to do was chase it around like a Maltese or other small dog I'd like to use as a football*.  But now that we're here, his demeanor has changed. He no longer sees the bushy tailed, bug-eyed creatures as friends, they are the enemies.  My dogs have become The Rodent Assassins of Swan Lake** and they take their position extremely seriously. I've seen scissors and old camouflage t-shirts scattered about the basement,  solid red kitchen towels have gone missing, and there have been Google Searches on everything from "How to Grow Opposable Thumbs" to "Canine Opposable Thumb Prosthesis".  I haven't seen a trace of a cape or a UPS shipment from a tiny town in China specializing in canine thumbs but I have my suspicions. While a normal mother would attempt to truncate this violent behavior (and their costume tendencies which would just made them the laughingstock at school), I am encouraging it.  If I were to call a family meeting, a gathering only feasible via plenteous dog bones, and tell my little ones that hunting these creatures is wrong, then I would, of course, be a hypocrite.  Worst of all, I would be besmirch the natural order of things and in the process, eradicate the pride one feels for a kill.  

    This revelation came about in an unconventional way.  I was recently on Twitter, as it's the unemployed person's savior between doing dishes and sweeping the day away like Cinderella, when I eavesdropped on a troubling conversation. One of my blogging buds and fellow Huntographer was telling the tale of a man who was disgusted with hunters who took does.  As a hunter who has never had the pleasure, nor even the chance, to shoot a buck, this troubled me to the core.  Ghost informed me that the man stated that those who congratulated one another over the harvest of a doe were "stroking one another" (No, no that! Keep it PG, people!), that those who took a doe "weren't hunting hard enough" and that the whole fiasco "made him want to puke".  Apparently, this guy's gag reflex equaled mine as the words appeared.  From what was told to me after I began partaking in this argument, the Doe Lover was unable to find any deer this year, which supposedly was the product of people taking does. His logic is unfounded as one can easily tell with a little research. Growing deer populations are being blamed for destroying forests (an excerpt taken from a September 2011 broadcast), increasing insurance rates, lime disease, and millions of dollars in crop damage each year. The deer population is growing, whether this gentlemen wants to realize it or not.  In addition, if one were to find any information about hunting in, for example, Northern Missouri, he or she would be quick to see that last year's decline had a reason***, and it had nothing to do with doe kills:

“We knew going into the season that hunters would have a tough time,” said Hansen. “Acorns were abundant in southern Missouri this year, and that meant deer didn’t have to move around much to find their preferred food. That makes deer harder for hunters to find.

“I have heard some people say we use acorns as an excuse when the harvest is down. But if you look at data from the past 20 years, the correlation between big acorn crops and reduced deer harvests is unmistakable.”

If our little Twitter friend did his research, he may have seen that there are environmental factors that play a big part in the prevalence of deer in an area. While I'd like to think that this hunter is simply illerate or has something wrong with his search engine which cripples his research abilities, it seems the problem boils down to ego.

   In the society of glamorous hunts, TV shows with 65-point bucks and a focus on all things big, it is only natural that some may fall into the egotistical pit that only views a "good harvest" by the number of tines, mass of bone or symmetry of points.  However, in the real world, those bucks exist few and far between, leaving us authentic hunters, no matter how hard one tries, with what God has put in our paths, whether it be doe, buck, or something in between. There is no shame in harvesting a doe when the hunter puts the animal to good use, say a venison pasta or a special taco night for his family.  When an animal is taken legally and ethically, it is a blessing to the hunter and in a lot of cases, the environment as well.

   A legal, ethical, and proud hunt occurred just feet from where I am currently sitting, in the backyard that our dogs love with reckless abandon. It was a regular day, which found me happy with life, albeit still on the job hunt.  The dogs were reeling after Avery's recent squirrel harvest and they were looking for more.  Barking the way they do when they see a perfect specimen to make noise at, the three bounded outside.  I went to wash my hair (this is an arduous process as its length is over a foot and growing), oblivious to the goings on outside.  Once each fiber of hair was perfectly dried, I noticed the house was quiet.  Really quiet. Too quiet. 

   Avery, the smart girl, had escaped under the fence once again and was standing, waiting for me to let her in on the front porch.  I walked to the sliding glass door to the back yard and stood face to face with a scared looking Titus.  I let him in, turning my attention to Oscar.  Between his stick legs laid a squirrel whose last breath must have escaped moments prior. His pit bull smile radiated as he picked up the lifeless body, moved it inches closer to the door, then began pacing around it.  I wanted to immediately rid the yard of the rodent but waited a handful of moments to allow Oscar time to be proud of his work.  Together, we disposed of his kill.  As his cute butt trotted towards the house, I noticed he seemed overjoyed that he had done his natural duty and rid our house of an annoying, unwanted neighbor.  I was struck with a similar feeling when the first deer, a fat doe, of 2011 went to the processor and again two years ago when my first doe fell. 

   Despite the belief reflected above, which I sincerely hope is the minority, pride can (and should!) be taken from any game which is acquired, be it squirrel, doe, or buck.  I hope that our delusional friend can take a page out of Oscar's book and see each harvest as a supreme blessing.













* I admit it, I'm not a small dog person.  They bite and appear to be horrible, little creatures.  So, yes, I frequently envision myself punting any small puffy rat-dog-thing just like a football. 
** Swan Lake is what we dubbed the pond we live on.. it didn't have a name and I wanted to be ironic about it. Sue me.
*** DU, after reading this stated that the decline of deer, especially in Missouri, has been blamed on Bluetongue.

Gratitude and Glorification: HLYH's 100th Post

   It is a special day here at HLYH headquarters.  

No, it isn't because I have bagged another Jackalope, learned to love Fatback, or made another awesome, crazy movie trailer (okay, the last part is true and you can view it now!).  

And I hate to disappoint but I have not been crowned Queen of the Wold or been contacted by any outdoor channels to appear on a Writing Huntress appropriate (read: off the wall, fun, funny) hunting show. 

  Today, friends, is more of a sentimental day.  

This post, the one whose words are slowly forming as my fingers find their proper place, is HLYH 100th creation! Also, I have reached 110 followers on Blogger, and almost 900 on Twitter, a feat that I had never believed would be achieved in less than a year after beginning HLYH.

I thought about the ways I wanted to celebrate, how I thought about inviting one and all to my house for a cook-out, some beverages and possibly some football, as long as everyone agrees on watching the Colts, not the Bills. 

I then figured that fitting over a thousand people in my modest log cabin wouldn't be the best idea so my brainstorming continued. 

I could send y'all something, what that something would be, I would have no idea, but given my love for all things sent the old fashioned way, the possibilities could be limitless. 

I could expedite some joy to your chosen corner of this beautiful world by whisking one of three of our pooches to each and every one of you, in turn.  I would assume that Titus would be the best canine candidate for this operation, as he adores people almost as much as I love mail and cowboy boots. 

I could write a post about all of my followers, enumerating their positive qualities, jest at those negative ones and simply glorify all that is inherently you, you supurb human being, you!

Indeed, friends, I wanted to send y'all just a small piece of the happiness that has been shown to me but I then I figured in cost, shipping, and the emotional toil that would be forced upon Titus would be too much on all accounts. 

Therefore, I simply wanted to thank you and glorify myself! 

HA! Bet you didn't see that one coming (or maybe you did, if you read this blog with any amount of religiousness then you're well aware that tooting my own horn (( I adore this expression, as I always imagine people toting their own little miniature horns around with them that produces a TOOT each time its owner pats his or herself on the back)) is one of my most favorite activities, much to your enjoyment, I am sure). 

Thank you..

  to each and every single one of you who have ever glanced, Tweeted, Facebooked or even told someone, "Hey, this chick is crazy, check out her stuff!"  I, obviously, would be absolutely nowhere, swimming in a sea of obscurity without a life jacket or broken door upon which to prop myself, without you.  So with a big heart, humble fingers and a teary eye to I tip my hat to you, dearest reader, for coming around every so often to show me just the smallest bit of love that keeps this blog going. 

To you! Cheers!

Myself, Glorified.

I am never one to point out my aptitude in writing.  In fact, I generally think that my portrayal of everything and anything that I commit to word is pretty horrific, like a car crash that you want to pull your eyes from but your neck will not allow.  It takes months fully appreciate something that I had written years prior, or sometimes not at all.  I've heard that this is a writer's curse, but since I don't feel myself a writer just yet, then I have not the darnedest what to call it. 

Either way, I am always interested to hear what people say about my odd points of view, overly-wordy diction, and the way that my hunting stories have to do with baby pictures, DMVs, lost jobs, waist-deep snow, man caves or not about killing animals at all. 

I cringe when I hear that someone I know personally is reading whatever it is that I have created that day but I gleefully hoard silent compliments that are transmitted through the internet machine by people whose voices I have never heard. 

I have had great reviews that have been cherished like a child's treasured doll or Transformer but no review has ever struck me as much as this one. 

I could go on but I'll just let my guest speak her words, letters combined which made me feel a little bit more like this writer that everyone seems to enjoy so much. 

It all started around 1 o’ clock in the morning when I interjected on the Huntress' Twitter that I should write an intro to her latest blog.

After a handful of tweets back and forth, I agreed to write a review of her hunting blog instead (this was probably the safest bet, as to not embarrass her. I, on the other hand, am a completely different story- let the embarrassment live on!) Now, it should first be known that i am not a huntress. I am quit far from it, actually. I'm a tiny Italian girl from Niagara Falls, New York that plays bass in the band Billy Draws Two. I draw comics of myself in awkward situations, and my idea of an exhilarating night is successfully completing a quest in a Dungeons & Dragons campaign with fellow nerds. Hunting was certainly nothing I had ever given a thought to if it didn't involve a gray and "traffic cone orange" plastic gun pointed at a television screen.
However, once the key was turned; the gears haven't stopped turning. Instantly, I went to her blog with a plan. I would read her latest entry, from first letter to last punctuation mark... and nothing else.

This is where everyone is turning their heads to the side like a confused puppy, so let me explain. By diving right in without any background information I can guarantee a raw, good quality review. I know absolutely nothing on the subject matter, so I will have no critique other than the quality of the writing and the blog it's self as a whole.

The page opened in a new tab and there was the beautiful paint covered face of the girl whom I've known for several years now. Clad in camo and laced with shrubbery, those pale, yet piercing blue eyes stole all focus there might have been on anything else in the picture. Personally, I would have gone with a picture of yours truly to open the page, but to each their own (I jest, of course. In all honesty, a great shot for the top of the site!)

With my coffee in hand, I began reading her latest post “A Chain Reaction (In Three Parts).”

After finishing reading, tossing my now empty Tim Horton’s cup in the trash, and pushing my glasses up the bridge of my nose; I began to reflect.
For the first time, in a very LONG time, I had no critiques on structure what-so-ever! I had almost forgotten that this lovely lady has a BA in English and loves writing as much as I do with the natural ease that comes to us. She has such a unique tone while writing that you don’t feel like you’re reading a blog. You displace yourself, to wherever you heart see fit, and it’s personal. Maybe it’s over coffee, at a bar, in the locker room, polishing your guns (you DO polish those, right?) Your mind wanders to where you find comfort and instead of reading, you’re having a conversation. To benefit your imagination of where I was, we were sitting in the kitchen of a mutual friend’s house, drinking vats of wine in over sized glasses, with junk food scattered across the table while the Golden Girls thanked us for being their friends on TV (Fun Fact: this was usually how we conversed and shared about our days- over wine, in someone else’s kitchen, while someone else cooked for us. We are not lazy- we are royalty. Suspend disbelief!)

While reading I found myself completely enveloped, with tiny bursts of chuckles at her witty tolerance of minor malfunctions. With such good writing, and such a strong narrative voice, I had a strange feeling of disconnection when I reached the end of the post. Like saying goodbye to your gaggle of friends after an unexplainably good time and all you’re left with if yourself and a quiet room after you close the door behind them.

Now, I do realize that maybe I got lucky with my scientific method of review: this particular entry had very little to do with ACTUAL hunting, but more the journey for a state license so she can do so without the pains of an empty wallet. By chance I was saved from trying to understand the elements and art of the hunt.

In conclusion (because every 8th grade English teach INSISTS you write your concluding paragraph this way) you should read this blog. Plain and simple. Even if you do not hunt, even if you don’t understand the first thing about a bow or a gun or a…. slingshot? (See, I’m making an example of myself in my example… Case in point!) The content is understandable and educating, the author hilarious and compassionate, and overall it’s simply nice to read.

So here’s to you, hunters and huntresses! I intend to keep reading, and learning, and perhaps someday you’ll see me out there!
Cheers!
-Rosie 

@alonerocker
Bassist, writer, and nerd extraordinaire.

The Kamikaze Goose

I am here to tell you the tale of a goose.

Branta canadensis.  From the kingdom Animalia, the phylum Chordata, the subfamily Anserinae, the tribe Anserini and from the genus Branta did he come; wings flapping, feathers flying, honker honking.

  A goose with no name but who is known because of his Evil Kenevil persona. 

He dances in the clouds, he dips from view, he dodges steel bullets, he ducks (even though he is a Canada goose), he performs other verbs that began with D, and he does it all while breaking guns. 

Yes, my friends, Kamikaze Goose is a legend unto himself.  A legend that helped make our opening day another one for the book of epic first mornings, a day like any other yet so different it was worthy of visual attention. 

Opening Day 2011, at your service and for your pleasure.  A day in miniature, running 6 minutes, 55 seconds short; a series of events which culminated with the appearance of the mythical Kamikaze Goose...

Keep in mind, I'm always looking for new video ideas so if you have any How To.. quandaries, reprimands or praises, do let me know either via email (huntlikeyourehungry@gmail.com) or via the comment area below! 

A Chain Reaction (In Three Parts)

 303... Come on 303... I think to myself as the red-dot numbers fly by in a blur.  303... 303... 303... I chant until somehow, possibly by my telepathic, mystical powers, the numbers 111 transform into a crimson palindrome that causes me to explode from my seat and begin dancing as if I were a native African whose village had just been spared by a rampaging elephant.  My frenzy ceases, and while I was transported to Las Vegas in the week-long wait at the DMV; currently winning the jackpot of a kajilion dollars while playing crapes, those surrounding me were most certainly not.  Hanging my head in the only kind of shame that is produced from having embarrassed yourself in public, I prayed to the big man in the heavens that I would never, ever run into any of these people on the outside as I walked through the "No Cell Phones Beyond This Point" etched doors. 


  My pilgrimage to the land of poor customer service and sinful long wait lines was over a year in the making.  Apparently, if you migrate from one body of earth to another, if the said area of dirt lays within the boundaries of a differently named region of natural sediment, I am forced to stand in insanely long lines while angry government officials look down at me, their unfortunate peon, in order to change my driver's license.  This entire, absurd process is supposed to be completed within 30 days of a move if you are seeking a full-time dwelling in the state you are currently standing in.  I, however, decided that "within 30 days" meant "until I feel like it" so I have been living in North Carolina illegally, as I have lived here since July 1st 2010 and still hold a New York license.  This kind of "outlaw" status made me a little proud, to be perfectly honest.  I felt like I was a gunslinger in an old wild west movie, strapped to the nth degree from head to toe in antique arms, guns so big and bulky that while there was no way they would be practical in a real altercation but I toted them anyway, for the theatrics of the thing.  DU, a tad concerned that I had traded my entire wardrobe for one that would make John Wayne proud, advised that I give up my dream of becoming a true-blue cowboy in rural North Carolina almost a year ago.  His concern was not the woolen chaps, the 10-gallon hat that covered my eyes 78% of the time, or the 6 stallions I acquired and placed in the front yard of our Charlotte home but, of course, hunting season. 


    If you, yes, let us use you as an example (I used to love when teachers would do that kind of thing in class so I have decided to resurrect it for old time's sake.  ((If you're wondering why, exactly, I loved when teachers did this, it boils down to the fact that I hated about 89% of my pre-college years.  Hence, when a teacher was talking about living with herds of bison in the prehistoric area and I was chosen as the lone hunter, I, for a moment, was transported away from that horrific institution of education to a place where I was not myself.  I escaped for mere moments a day and that was enough for me (((unfortunately for you, however, I am sending you to North Carolina.  It isn't mastodon hunting with a gaggle of Neanderthals but it should be enough to cover your Friday.)))))).  Let us pretend that you move to North Carolina.  You are a hunter, of course, as if there would be anything else you would like to be.  On second thought, let's make you a Prince, Queen, King, or some other member of an obscure hierarchy from an equally unknown European nation who just happens to hunt.  We'll call you Prince Titus (or Princess Avery) who hails from the country of Osclandia.  You, Sir Prince T. or Princess A., have decided to move to North Carolina because you have heard our BBQ is the best (this isn't an assumption, it really is). You move your castle by way of helicopter in the heat of July.  Hunting season starts in late August or early September so you figure that this year, to save time and the hassle of waiting at the DMV, you will buy out-of-state tags.  135 dollars later (the extra 15 added for a federal duck stamp), you're standing in line angrily watching NC residents hand over a meager 55 (again, 15 added for a national waterfowl stamp)  for the exact same tags. 


   North Carolina, as well as other states across the country, triple the price of tags for "outsiders".  While many would call fowl (birds or a wrongdoing, you choose), I agree with the practice.  NC lawmakers see those who hail from different states as those coming in to use the state's national resources without really adding to the economy from which they take.  Hence, the state has to make up their revenue somehow and making expensive out-of-state tags is the way to go.  DU knew all this when he advised that I change my residency as soon as possible in order to save almost 100 big ones.  I, being the stubborn one, decided against it, as I'd rather shell out 100 pieces of green paper in order to side-step having to visit the DMV.  A year later, and here I am, sitting in an uncomfortable plastic chair with the rest of the dregs of society, waiting, looking for that magic trio of numbers, 303. 


   Looking to the rest of my cohorts, I see a "driver's test" booklet in each of their hands.  All 20 of them are eagerly flipping the pages as their eyes hone in on the most important aspects of the literature.  This being the smallest DMV I have ever visited, I was shocked when my number took moments, not years, to be called.  In a twist of fate, for the first time ever as an adult, I was praying for a year sentence in this concrete cell.  DU had also advised me to study.  Study? I thought, What an interesting concept. I never really studied much in college, as English came so naturally to me that I rose to the top of my class without ever having to really open a book. So, naturally, I didn't look at anything save for concentrating really hard at the signs I passed en route to the DMV.  As the numbers flashed, the monotonous voice ringing 303...303 to station 1...1..1.., I realized that for the first time in my life, I may fail a test. 


   Walking through the etched doors, I put my game face on. Scowling to the disgruntled- looking DMV warlord, I amass my paperwork.  I handled the bundle over which inevitably produced a chain reaction (in three parts) which ultimately saw me to Bass Pro, buying hunting tags of either resident or non-resident status. 

A Chain Reaction in Three Parts

Reaction 1: The Insurance  

In NC, before you get your license, you must obtain NC insurance for your car.  This practice seems a tad backward for me but I begrudgingly changed my State Farm policy from NY to NC days after my first botched DMV visit. Smugly I sat, waiting for DMV MAN (no, sadly, he was not wearing a cape) to tell me I had everything in order. Of course, I didn't.  The temporary insurance cards that I was sent, without replacements, expired 2 weeks prior.  I was told that I could take the test but I would have to call my State Farm people and get something faxed over verifying that my insurance was up-to-date. 

Figuring this was the only hurdle I had to leap over at running speeds, I flipped open my cell phone.  Before my fingers even hovered over their intended destination I heard NO CELL PHONES ALLOWED! 

I turned to see an extremely overweight woman looking at me as if I had murdered her family of kittens as she watched. 

Why tell me to contact my insurance company when I can't call them? I asked the attendant. 

Should I send smoke signals? I asked myself, aside.

Call them outside, She replied. 

I pointed to a sign. 

The sign says I can't leave, I said, suddenly surprised at how much power signs hold over people's lives. 

The cretin sighed, said fine, I guess we'll let you step outside but you must come RIGHT back. 

As if there were anywhere else I wanted to be. 

Reaction 2: The Test

The insurance situation dealt with, I turned my attention to the examination at hand. First at bat, the sight test.  I was forced to look into a Viewmaster-Viewer- esque contraption whose light was operated with my forehead.  I read the first line at the top and told the DMV captain about the signs I viewed, railroad crossing being my only misstep. 

Then came the real deal, THE test. 

I sat at the touch-screen computer, unaccustomed to such technology at the DMV, and began the test. 

The first question was 2+2.  I confidently answered four and began thinking that if the test questions were that easy, I'd be fine.  Of course, idiot me, it was an example question. 

THE test began easy enough, asking about what you do at a stop sign, how not to run over school children and why skunks should be avoided as a potential roadkill meal. 

And then came the quandaries that baffled me as a 9-year driver. 

If you come to an intersection that is not marked with direction, what do you do? 

Slow down? Nope! Stop, honk your horn and flash your lights until you feel safe with proceeding! 

If your brakes fail, what should you do?

Scream? "Accidentally" urinate in your work pants until you see something conveniently squishy to run into? Nope! Put your car in the lowest gear and slow to a stop!

If there is a unicorn running at full speed next to your car and you are about to run into a rainbow made of skittles and pop rocks, who will get there first?

The unicorn, of course, as it has mythical speed powers! Yes! Correct. 

Answers wrong: 5

Wrong Answers Allotted to Pass: 5

Reaction 3: The Payment

Inside my being, I was tickled that I passed.  Yes, I thought to myself, I still have it, "it" being the power to pass any test without ever studying for it or even reading anything about the subject at hand. 

I sat amongst excited teens getting their learner's permit or license for the first time.  One such gleeful teenager who high-fived me, asking if this was the first time I took the test. I figured I'd save him the embarrassment of telling him I was a quarter of a century young so I sent a hearty high-five back in return then replied in the affirmative. 

303 was called, again, to the desk of a spiky-haired lady who was the nicest DMV employee I had ever met. 

All of the information was in, the test was (nearly) a rousing success, and now I had to pay. 

The DMV website says that new licenses cost $4 and some new resident processing fee costs $10 but my total on that day was $32 on the nose. 

I had $28 on me and of course, in DMV fashion, they don't make things easy or simple so they don't accept credit cards. 

I stared at the crazy coiffed lady with a look of pure astonishment. The look lasted through the 10 minute drive to the ATM, the drive back, and the wait, again, in line. 

   Close to two hours after I waited in my first line of the morning, I held in my hands a piece of paper that bore my new license number.  DU, conveniently, was at Bass Pro.  I met him then happily passed my license over to the amazing Bass Pro worker. The camo consultant, as her title read from her name tag, faltered on my request.  She took many minutes but finally was able to change my residency. The wait was well spent, as she was bright, delightful and accommodating.  I was charged the resident fee and given that I have no clue in the slightest how I am going to go about paying for anything this season*, my days spent out may be extremely limited reflecting the deficient funds I am currently amassing, the decreased price was a heaven sent. 

  The process may have been arduous, the Chain Reaction (In Three Parts) may have been ridiculous and I may avoid that dreaded place for at least 10 years, but my hunting season can now begin.  If I can get through that day, then I can certainly fare the unfruitful, tiring, cold, and euphoric days that lay ahead. 

*Request to donate to the "Help the Writing Huntress Hunt" fund can be directed to huntlikeyourehungry@gmail.com!!**

** Don't blame a girl for trying!!