Deer hunting season means I get 42 hours all to myself.
Being a deer hunting widow means there will be no one in my house asking for food, beverages, clean socks or a back rub. There will be no one who needs advice, an extra $20.00 or a ride anywhere. There will be no one playing the piano badly, tracking a trail of mud through my kitchen, or falling off the jungle gym requiring a trip to ER.
It will be bliss.
Deer hunting season is when Mr. 4-Ever takes the boys north to commune with nature and other like-minded men. They will eat bacon at every meal, sit around a fire sharpening knives to throw at trees and not change their undies for two whole uncivilized days.
I was giddy with anticipation for their adventure and my staycation.
I went to the video store and pre-selected the chick flicks I would rent the second Mr. 4-Ever’s truck disappeared from view.
I squirreled away deli treats and expensive cheeses, hiding them in the recesses of the frig where no one would find them. I bought sparkling flavored water and good chocolate which I kept hidden in the trunk of my car until the magic moment.Read More›