Gone Fishin'

My husband loves to fish. I knew this when I married him. I do not love to fish. Maybe if it were easier to catch those boogers, I'd like it. But I don't have the patience to sit there waiting. And frankly, not to be too gross here, but I've seen a fish brain. I'm not impressed. I'd like to think I could outsmart one without having to spend enormous amounts of time trying to figure out which color plastic wormy thing they prefer or whichaway to jiggle my line to attract them. I didn't put that much effort into landing Hubz and he's not scaly. Well, not all the time anyways.

Hubz hasn't been able to go fishing very much for a couple of years now. Of course, this lack of actual fishing hasn't stopped his purchasing of fishing equipment. He has a collection of bags with fishing paraphernalia in them from Bass Pro Shops and WalMart all over the place. Of course, the bags, or the stuff in them, haven't been looked at, moved, or let alone used but these bags sitting around make him feel all safe and warm inside, I guess.

Anyways, last week I started hearing talk about a great fishing extravaganza with "the guys" scheduled for this past Saturday. [When I hear the phrase "the guys", my eyes do this automatic roll. I can't help it. It's involuntary. I digress.]

You would have thought Christmas was about to come. Normally laid-back Hubz got all kinds of antsy pantsy. He could not wait. He couldn't concentrate. He couldn't complete sentences. He was like a puppy dancing around chasing his own tail.

Hubz went and bought some parts for his dad's boat, some tires for the boat trailer (where's this money coming from???), went online and purchased his fishing license (and hunting license cause you might as well kill two birds with one stone, right?), knocked the dust off his two tackle boxes, moved some of these collected bags around the house, bagged up about 12 fishing poles/rods/thingamajigs (even though the man only has two hands), checked, double and triple checked the boat registration, left the house before 9am on Saturday (I have to threaten violence to get him out of bed that early on the weekends) only to return at almost midnight that night. All of these grand preparations took place and here is a picture of the fruits of his labor:

*I am told this picture is a joke picture between "the guys". That very well may be, but if so, he let it fall into the hands of the wrong party, namely me.