Shades of Red

Rose, rust, burgundy, wine, maroon, magenta, puce, crimson, cherry, cerise, vermilion.

All shades of red.

I have noticed an alarming and rapid change here in Pennsylvania, and no, this isn't an 'I love Fall Leaves' post. This is a bitter diatribe about an alarming change that threatens to take over my household, my family, and shake the very foundation of my marriage.

I consider myself a pretty tolerant wife. Long-suffering, if you will. Now don't get the wrong idea, my husband is a gem, treats me real good. However, if you know Cody (said husband) you know that when he jumps into something, he jumps in all the way, taking his shoes, shirt and wallet in with him. Like fly fishing. I think it's fair to say he would shrivel up and die without his life sustaining IV of Winstons and dry nymphs. So for five years I have let him go fishing basically whenever he wanted, because I knew it made him happy.
"Sure, I just had a baby two days ago, but honey, you go right on out and go fishing."
"Sure, why don' t you go on an three day fishing trip on our anniversary for the third year in a row."

You see, long-suffering.

But I think I have just about had it with the latest infestation of red that has Cody up to his ruddy little neck in camo and entrails. You guessed it. . . . he has picked up hunting. Big bummer.

My problem isn't so much with hunting animals- I am not a tree hugger or anything like it (though I do only shave my legs once a week in the winter, which makes me kinda granola). My problem with hunting is the incredible case of redneck that accompanies it. At a rapid pace, Cody went from cool husband who found joy in occasionally wearing over-priced fly fishing shirts, to a full blown, buying-camo-at-Walmart, target-practicing-with-a-crossbow-in-our-backyard, look-at-my-gut-hook-buck-skinner, help-me-fit-60-pounds-of-dead-deer-in-the-fridge redneck.

I put the blame on one of his fly fishing buddies who took him out turkey hunting several weeks ago. He filled his head with all sorts of seductive tales of guns, crossbows, shooting Bambi's mom and dad and BAM! Cody relinquished his hold on the rod of normalcy and stumbled off onto a scarlet path paved with sunburned napes. And that's the issue I have. Not the killing of animals (though, what the heck do I want with all that deer meat?) so much as the life style that accompanies hunting. Cody doesn't quite understand what I have against hunting- "Don't you think its manly?" he asks me. Sure, if it was 1845 and you were bringing home dinner. But it's 2007, you go to dental school, and most hunters now-a-days don't even have all their teeth. I know, that's harsh and judgemental, but that's how I ride. In fact, Cody was watching a broadcast of a public forum protesting some change in hunting laws here in Pennsylvania, when a tall skinny redneck, dressed in flannel, gets up, with chew still tucked quaintly in his lip and starts eloquently defending why hunters should be able to kill rodents three days earlier than the law currently allows. "We should have the right, nnkay, to have those three extra days, nnkay, to kills us some raccoons, nnkay" and so on and so forth. . . nnkay. That, Cody, is the prime example of why hunters have such a negative stereotype these days.

I am not one that is super into appearances. I mean, sure, I can be a bit granola from time to time (I assure you it is purely out of sheer laziness, nothing to do with any political statement). But when I come home to find my husband, still in his camo, boiling the top of a deer head in my kitchen, I draw a line. What was he doing, you city slickers ask? Oh silly, he was simply boiling all the flesh off the antlers. See! Do you have ANY IDEA what boiling deer flesh smells like?!! I've heard they bottle up this smell and you can actually purchase it at your local Walmart in the perfume section. It's called Essence of a Backwoods Hick. And now my house is permanently permeated with this prize winning smell. I took a brief look and saw Cody prying the boiled fur, flesh, and lingering eyeball off his prized antlers with his gut-hook-buck-skinner and I almost vomited, and I am not using that term loosely. Barf. Gag. Bile.

I know, I know. I know exactly what your quandry is. Just where is he going to hang up those antlers? I'll tell you exactly where. Over my dead, part-time granola body.