The Misadventures of Cheri

Mortifying my kids one swimsuit at a time

Three Simple Rules

on November 30, 2008

Yes, my husband is off on yet another (and his last of the year) hunting adventure. He called and said the hunting was very slow today and he actually fell asleep in the blind. Bless his heart. Isn’t that what you say at the end of talking about a crazy person?

I knew when I married Tyler he was the hunter-gatherer type. He came equipped with guns, gear and professionally mounted caribou . . . rack? . . . . horns? . . . . . pointy things? I don’t know. All I do know is they’re the only previously-alive item that is allowed to hang on the walls of our house. Through the years, with some trial and error, I have come up with three non-negotiable rules when it comes to Tyler and his hunting escapades. I should say it took me less than two years for me to come up with these, and they haven’t changed in the following fourteen years.

*Disclaimer – these rules stand as long as we’re not starving. If we ever have to hunt/fish to put food on the table, I will abandon these rules in a heartbeat.


Whatever you kill and bring home, you will bring it home cleaned. I do not do guts. I do not do scales. I do not do fur. I do not do . . . . well, you get it. There will be no bleeding of a mammal in my garage. There will be no rotting guts in the garbage. It will come home ready to eat or put in the freezer.


Don’t tell me about any close calls you had. This rule came about when Tyler and a friend went moose hunting and ended up getting charged by an angry female brown bear. After his hour long story that ended in the ultimate demise of the bear, I think I needed shock therapy. I don’t want to know about how close the hook you were casting came to your eye. I don’t need to know that the gun went off in an unintended direction. I don’t need to hear any of it.


Don’t ask me to come along. I don’t hunt. There’s really nothing more to say. I don’t want to sit at the Comfort Inn all day long and wait for you. I have two kids that need to be entertained and eastern Washington (currently the object of my husband’s hunting and fishing desire) isn’t really a hot bed of excitement for them. Which makes it unbearable for me.

There you have it. Tyler has actually done very well with the “rules” over the years. Sorta. He does manage to ask me every year if I want to go catfishing with him, the kids and his dad every year. Refer to rule #3 dear! I’m sorry, my idea of fun is not sitting on a boat for 6 -8 hours in 95+ degree heat. I asked him where I would go to the bathroom. He informed me that they put the port-a-potty on the bow of his dad’s boat. And that “we all turn around when someone goes.” I didn’t even ask him about the other boats on the river. Yeah, doing THAT in front of – or behind – my father in law. Never in a million years. And I also know I’d end up doing all the cooking, cleaning, refereeing the kids . . . . . Wow. Could it be any more attractive?

As he’s out falling asleep in goose blinds in 30 degree weather, here I sit – at home and cozy. And using a bathroom with walls, a door and a toilet that flushes.


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