I think women are raccoons or something.
What is it with our fascination with small shiny objects?
Jewelry. I love jewelry. Diamonds. Diamonds are a Weetabix’s best friend.
Rubies aren’t bad either. I’d take a ruby any day.
Following this logic, we should be attracted to fishing lures to. Bait shops should be magnets for women, we should be gathering and ooohing around Rapalas, spinners and gigs.
Before I started golfing, on Saturday mornings, I used to watch fishing shows. Jim Bucher and the like. I think I was attracted to the fact that these men swim in testosterone the way that an expensive glittery department store makeup counter oozes in estrogen. I would stare wide-eyed at them, sticking their BARE HANDS inside the gills of LIVING WALLEYES! Man, it was almost too much.
One time, Markus and I went fishing while we were camping at Manitowish Waters. I was feeling all studly. I was twenty four years old and I had my Snoopy fishing rod.
So we started casting. And casting. And casting. We changed our bait. I started using worms, which were entirely gross, but I was trying very hard to be butch. I kept losing my worm because I wasn’t properly setting the hook. I didn’t know what a strike felt like. All around us, 60 pound muskelunges were jumping out of the water, mocking us.
Then, as I was reeling in yet another ridiculous fruitless cast, as my lure was just about to break the water two feet off the boat, a FURIOUS STRIKE! I started to scream!!! ‘OH MY GOD!!! MARKUS!!!! ACKKK!!!’
It was the northern Wisconsin equivalent of a goldfish or guppy. It’s mouth was actually too small to even get onto the hook. It chomped the worm and was gone.
The anglers surrounding our boat all peered over to see who got a hook caught in their eye or testicle or something.
Nope. Just Weetabix and her two-inch trophy fish that got away.
I spent the rest of the day in the boat making a bracelet out of spinners from Markus’ tacklebox.
Pretty shiny things again.
I am frightened by the machines that endlessly spin hotdogs at gas stations.
I’ll bet Joe Bucher the Fishing Guy on TV eats them, though.
My name this weekend should have been Crabby McGrouchyPants. I’ve been owly all weekend and it’s no one’s fault but my own.
Today, I don’t even look like myself. My hair is all wacky because I slept on it wet. Instead of being kinder, gentler foofy hair, it’s hard-ass Pulp Fiction ‘Don’t Mess With Me I’ll Cut You, Man!’ kind of hair. I’m exacerbating the look by wearing mostly all black and my Skank Ho seriously red lipstick. It kind of gives me a ‘She drinks the blood of her victims’ look.
I look seriously tough, I’m telling you.
People better just call me MS. McGrouchyPants. Or I might just have to wield my Circle of Death quilting scissors.
Which is also very pretty and shiny.
