November's Midwest Pasttime

I decided to go down to the cabin this weekend for lack of better things to do. I got up at 4am...which is way to early for anyone to get up, and made the trek. Mom does it in alittle over 2 hours, I can make the trip in about an hour and a half.

Along the way, I kept seeing various vehicles parked alongside the highways. It wasn't until I saw someone in an orange hat, that I remembered that deer hunting season was officially open. That time of year where men take leave of their senses and disappear into the woods, donning the brightest, ugliest orange coupled with clothes to make them blend in with the environment. That never made much sense to me. Why would someone go to great lengths to look like a tree, only to throw on a flourescent orange vest and hat? Doesn't that sort of defeat the purpose??

Another thing that baffles me is that these great hunters slather "deer scent" all over themselves to mask their humanly, macho man smell. Deer scent is a nice way of saying deer piss. Something called Deer Piss couldn't be marketed at Walmart (it's a family place, ya know)...so they give it a much more pleasant name...Deer Scent, because no man would knowingly bathe in deer piss to attract other deer. To make it even better, they don't shower for the entire time they are out...which can last up to a week.

So, not only do they prowl the woods looking like light-reflecting orange trees, they smell like a johnny-on-the-spot for Bambi. Men from all walks of life. It's a national event. In some parts of the country, I'm sure banks close down (don't let the whole Veteran's Day fool you). Towns roll up their sidewalks. Open rifle deer season has come upon the world.

Meanwhile, the women...the hunting widows, are left at home...alone to indulge in the luxuries of shopping, eating out, and most importantly...bathing with soap.

All the men in my family (and one tomboyish female) partake in this time-honored tradition. They go away and be fearless hunters during the day, sitting around the campfire at night, drinking beer, eating chili, and embellishing stories about how the world's largest buck narrowly escaped from their sinister, and very intimidating, clutches.

This is my dowry. The man that marries me is ensured a spot in the Great Charpie Hunting Expedition. The expedition so renowned that Charpies (by blood or marriage) travel from all parts of the country to take part in.

I'm so glad I was born with a vagina.