Fishing is for Girls

I don't know how it happened. But I have officially become the girlfriend of a fisherman.

What does this entail, you may ask? I, myself, am still learning the ropes. However, I can tell you that I may be experiencing some important life lessons. Operative word here is "may."

The first lesson I learned is patience. Fishing is not an immediate payoff. There's all this stuff you have to do in order to even get your line in the water. For instance, you have to drive to the lake. You have to launch the boat. Park the trailer. Find somewhere to pee because all the restrooms are closed for the season, apparently. Learn how to drive the boat, in a manner that is pleasing to the master fisherman. Bait your line, and get it in the water. Only to hope that you'll actually hook something, other than algae.

Multi-tasking is another necessary skill. I had to drive the boat, hold a line, drink my beer, and take photographs ALL AT THE SAME TIME. Now tell me that isn't difficult. Unfortunately the better you are at one of these skills, such as drinking beers, the worse you get at the remaining necessary tasks. Just in case you were wondering.

Quite possibly though the most difficult of all was the need to hold my tongue. Not just when being instructed on what to do, but also to keep any and all unnecessary conversation to myself. It is the natural instinct in me as a girl to want to chat away. I mean, I have the man that I love all to myself out in the middle of nowhere with no distractions. Of course, I'm going to want to pick his brain and talk about everything and anything that comes to mind. I quickly discovered that part of the allure of fishing is the waiting, and the peace and quiet. Not to mention it takes him a lot of skill to fly fish and "milk the cow" or "strip the line" or whatever it was he was doing. So distracting him is not the best idea.

Finally, I had to learn to be humble, and NOT rub in his face that I caught way more fish than he did. Keep in mind, however, that his way of fishing and my way of fishing are not even on the same tangent. His takes actual skill. Mine just takes reeling in the line when the fish bites. So, while doing a fish dance in a tin boat in the middle of a choppy lake may be appealing, it's way better to just laugh, smile and get a kiss.

At the end of the day, however, I felt so....fulfilled. I caught lots of fish, and while I was disappointed I had to throw them back, it was so much fun catching them. I was pleased that Ben would want to take ME to the lake, not his buddies, and spend a day together, while he shared with me one of the things he is passionate about. Although, obviously it's win-win for him because he doesn't have to take turns driving the boat so I can milk the cow. He can fish all day, while taking advantage of time with me. But, in summary, I'm happy to be the girl of a fisherman. I imagine that in time, I'll catch the bug, and look forward to these trips even more. I'm honored that I'm invited.

Just invent a pole that holds my beer and my camera while simultaneously driving the trolling motor. Then I'd really be a happy girl.

I've Been Censored

Just sayin. I had a great new blog, for all you followers, and the blog Nazi came and made me take it off.

Have a nice day.

Pants

Do you have a nickname?

I do. I have several. Some are given by the people who love me, some are given by the people who hate me. Of course, there are other nicknames as well, that are just used as a distinguishing marker. I am Manda, Ma, "Coors girl", Sissy, Maynard...I'm pretty sure the list goes on and on. I'm sure there are several that I'm actually glad I don't know.

Do not confuse terms of endearment with nicknames. Everyone has been a babe, baby, sweetheart, puddin' pie, or muffin. Not to mention, we constantly recycle these terms, as we change partners (and by this I mean date someone new....not get a new bridge partner.) I would also like to take this opportunity to remind you that if someone thinks an appropriate love name is "turd" as in "you're my favorite turd" as in "I wouldn't s*@t ya, you're my favorite turd," don't walk, RUN away. Can you imagine sitting at a $1000 per plate fundraising dinner, and having your mate call you "turd?" Yeah. That's nice.

If you are close to me, you probably have earned a nickname. That's right. EARNED. I bestow nicknames with honor. Even if it's really not that....flattering. However, mostly they are inside jokes, that over time have become the norm. Some of my favorites include "Pants," "my Mumford," "Wog," "Mosh," "Banana," and "Jerry." Sometimes I make them up personally, sometimes I adopt the ones you already have. It's my perrogative.

Othertimes, your nickname is used mostly behind your back, and it is used as a descriptor. For instance "Mike the attorney," "Marcus the Sequel," "Lender Mike," "Long-hair Chad," "Troy the Douche, "Aaron Man Muff," "THE," and "Papa Mike." The list goes on and on. You may notice that most of these are men. That's because I'm a girl, and boys come and go. However, I know boys do it too...I just had a conversation about "Helicopter" this morning. It's just easier that way.

So, am I callous when I call you "Boring Ben" behind your back? Of course not. Boring may have a negative connotation to most, but really I respect your lack of excitement and constancy in keeping your life on track. It just helps in conversation with mutual friends, because your name is so common. I still love you, though. That's why you're my friend.

So, wear your nickname with pride. However, if someone calls you "monkey," know the difference. This is a term of endearment (Dwight calls Angela that in The Office, for example). If someone refers to you as "Mr. Bogus," wear your title with honor. You've earned a place in her heart.

Getting Back to Nature

I can honestly say this last week has been one of the hardest weeks in my life. Okay, maybe a slight exaggeration, but not much. It was midterms in school, I had a deal I had to finish up so it could close, and another listing we got an offer on, but with a lease attached. So quite honestly, between school, work, kids, and a trash eating dog….I was completely up to the eyeballs in stress. I think the whole week I slept a combined total of eight hours.

So, when my friend Nick suggested that we go stay in his parents’ cabin in Wyoming, it sounded so inviting. We knew there was a storm blowing in this weekend, but thought if we got ahead of it and made it to the cabin by Friday night, we would not have to brave the untended Wyoming roads.

Friday was spent trying to finish homework, while prepping food for the weekend. It was a little time consuming, and more stress, but I just knew that in the end I would be happy with the time spent ahead so my work at the cabin would be greatly reduced. I was further stressed Friday because I had to break a dinner and drinks date with one of my favorite people in the whole word, and was feeling rather guilty and selfish over that whole ordeal.

But anyway, Friday night finally came, and we pulled out around 8:00 p.m. I still had homework to do, studying the poll numbers before and after each presidential debate, and trying to decide if the debates actually affected the candidate’s poll numbers. (My conclusion, of course, is that the numbers did change after each debate, although I’m hesitant to say it’s BECAUSE of the debate. I’m more tempted to say it has to do with SNL, Katie Couric, and an incredibly unpolished, inexperienced, trained monkey…and keep in mind that I am a Republican). So all the way up to Wyoming I had to work on the laptop, while everybody else in the Suburban got to drink cocktails. But finally we pulled into Evanston and it was time to get a drinkin’.

The first night at the cabin, we all just drank a little, but couldn’t really see the view. But Saturday morning, when I crawled out of bed, went into the main chamber of the cabin and looked out the window at the gorgeous view, I was instantly at peace with the world. It’s fall here and the Quakies are a brilliant yellow right now. There is a pond immediately behind the cabin. Plus of course, an abundance of pine or fur, or whatever kind of coniferous trees they were. It’s absolutely breathtaking.

After a couple games of cribbage, and a game of “dradle, dradle, ladle”, we got busy napping/watching movies/relaxing. Which was really nice, but it had started snowing, and I just felt a need to get outside. So mid afternoon, I put on my sexy long johns, snow pants, and Nick and I headed out. First stop was to a family that lives on the other side of the highway from the cabin.

When we first walked up to the house (pretty sure it’s a doublewide with a foundation, but not sure…), a young kid came out of this ginormous garage. Which, in true Wyoming style was bigger than the house. So we went into the garage and visited with Scott and his brother who were working on fixing stuff. After drinking a beer out there, we went into the house to see the new baby, and to meet the rest of the family. Well, I was meeting them. Obviously Nick already knew them.

Upon entering the house, cigarette smoke assaulted my nose. So, my first thought, of course, was I couldn’t believe they had a new baby in that environment. But, that’s the snob/mom in me. The house is kinda dark, and there is a lot of clutter in the kitchen, the kitchen table is piled high with mail and bills. There’s a boy on the couch, who didn’t look to be more than fourteen, but who, I found out a bit later, is stoned. I actually forgot he was there. I don’t think he moved a muscle the whole entire time we were there. The baby was adorable, of course. I resisted the urge to ask if I could hold her, because she’s only five days old and I would never have let some stranger coming in from the woods hold one of my babies. Although, in hindsight, I don’t think it would have been that big of a deal.

There is so much I want to say about this visit, but I think I will just bullet point a couple of highlights:
-The matriarch of the family has to go to court for throwing a rock at somebody who was lost and drove up on their property.
-There was a bumper sticker on the fridge that said “Uncle Sam wants YOU to speak English” or something like that.
-Pantyhose work almost as well as long johns and don’t bunch.
-The baby’s name was something like Sylvania, Salvannah, some sort of hybrid hick name.
-One can immediately bond with someone over alcohol. Once the “timber witch” aka, the “twitch witch” realized that I like to drink Captain Morgan’s Spiced rum, I was her BEST friend.
-They freeze their bread.
But the main point I want to make here, is that these people live the simplest of lives. The Timber Witch spends all her time at home, from what I can gather anyway, hates the snow (may I point out here, she lives in the Uintah mountains….) doesn’t like cities, and this family seems to be one of the closest families I’ve met in a long time. I actually really, really enjoyed my visit.

After some time there, Nick and I walked back to our cabin, “trick or treated” for two beers, which didn’t work because Michelle and Thom were busy lounging on the couches, and then we walked down a trail down into the woods.

It was lightly snowing, and a few inches that had gathered on the ground. We spent about an hour walking around in the quiet solace of nature, talking, laughing, taking pictures, and enjoying the silence. Easily one of my favorite parts of the weekend. When you are out in nature, just looking at the way the light hits the trees, the clouds part over the mountains, the delicate way the snow frosts the pine cones, it is really hard to not be grateful for life. To simply stroll along, not in a hurry, nowhere to go, no one more important that needs to be talked to. I think it is just such a natural response for us humans to want to be out in the wilderness like that. It’s where we need to go to get our heads on straight again. To ponder what’s really important in our lives, and what is superfluous.

The rest of the day was spent visiting, hottubbing in the snow (I make a GREAT poolboy….well, maybe not, but I do like a big pole…), and drinking, of course. Lots of laughter, pretty good food (although keep in mind, I’m a little critical….I hate being responsible for making sure everyone else eats well…) and an early bedtime, after a very heated game of Nertz.

All in all a great weekend. None of us wanted to leave. Sometimes I think that I would want to live like that year round. But I don’t think I’m wired that way. I think I would go crazy being home EVERY day, dealing only with the same handful of people, and doing the same thing over and over. But maybe I’m missing out on the easiest way to be happy. It’s conceivable.

I’m just grateful that once in a while I have the opportunity to go back to nature. It is my goal and responsibility to pass that on to my children. It’s our duty to make sure that in the name of capitalism and exploitation we don’t ruin or ignore the symbiotic relationship that we have with this beautiful world.

Oh, and by the way. Before travelling to Wyoming, make sure you figure out if you are a “colt” or a “filly”. It might save you the embarrassment of walking into the wrong restroom. Just FYI. Take my word on that.

Why can't I clean out my closet?!?!?

You know, I'm sitting on my bed, looking dismally at my closet to see what I should pack to wear tomorrow. My closet is filled with enough clothing to clothe a small African village, or a housekeeping staff of a dozen illegals, whichever comes first. Yet, it is seemingly impossible to find something to wear.

Why is this? It's conceivable that part of the reason is because Carrie has forbidden me to wear my muu muus. Which were the substitution for the sweats Marcie forbade me from wearing. Not that this is the only thing my closet is made up of. It maybe comprises 4.68% (with a margin of error of 2%). So, what's the problem?

There are two problems. One is less problamatic than the other. It can be explained with one or two simple questions: What if I get invited to an 80's party at the westerner? What if I need to attend a charity event with a Mexican Hat Dance theme? Obviously, the more crap you have in your closet, the more likely it is you can throw something together (although, the last couple years, my closet is so unmanageable it's less time consuming to just go buy something...)

The other, and more serious, issue is that I'm a post-30 year old woman. The last four years has seen a weight gain of plus or minus ten pounds. Now, for guys, this is no big deal. For us women, ten pounds is HUGE in the way our clothing fits. My closet has a range of sizes from size 2 to size 10. Of course, all the cute clothes are size 4-6, which at this stage of my ass' maturity into adulthood, are long in the past. But I REFUSE to spend money on clothes that actually fit. I mean, why would I waste my money on clothing that I'll only wear for a minute? Obviously give me a few weeks at the gym and I'll be right back into those cute clothes.

I've been waiting for those few weeks at the gym now to make a difference for a year and a half. Clearly something is broken at my gym.

In the meantime, I spend every day trying the same jeans I tried on yesterday, just in case during the night I was visited by a flesh eating disease that trimmed five inches off my hips, and then those jeans need to be refolded and put away. It's very time consuming. Now I understand why mature women wear skirts. With elastic waists.

I can't wait until I can wear polyester pants suits. OMG, was that my outloud voice?!?!? Has it really come to that? Sigh.