Love, Lures & Financially Questionable Decisions

Ladies, have you ever fallen so ridiculously in love with a man that you accidentally enrolled yourself in approximately 47 extracurricular activities you never signed up for?

Because SAME.

When I met Jet, I thought, “Oh, look at this handsome, hardworking, outdoorsy man. He hunts, he fishes, he builds beautiful things with his hands.

“How fucking attractive.”

And it IS attractive.

You know what’s slightly less attractive?

Finding a rubber fishing creature on your floor at 7 a.m. and briefly leaving your physical body to meet Jesus.

But we’ll get to that.

You see, Jet has three main hobbies. Hunting, fishing, and woodworking.

And I’ve discovered that dating a man with hobbies is basically like subscribing to three very expensive streaming services, except instead of watching television, you get live demonstrations, unsolicited educational seminars, and surprise field trips to sporting goods stores.

And apparently, there’s no option to cancel the subscription.

Not that I would.

I love the programming.

I just wish it came with subtitles.

Hunting: The Art of Sitting in a Tree With $8,000 Worth of Accessories

Before Jet, I thought hunting was pretty straightforward.

Put on camouflage. Grab your equipment. Go into the woods. Find a deer.

The end.

OH, YOU SWEET, IGNORANT WOMAN.

Apparently, there’s an entire world of hunting equipment that requires its own vocabulary, storage facility, and financial advisor.

Did you know there are different types of tree stands?

I do now.

Against my will.

And platforms. And climbing sticks. And saddles. And straps. And special bags to carry the straps that hold the things that attach to the other things.

Jet recently spent an hour explaining mobile hunting setups to me.

Apparently, WEIGHT MATTERS.

Which makes perfect sense, except I was still trying to figure out why we’re discussing the weight of something that ultimately exists to hold his ass in a tree.

Meanwhile, I’m over here wondering if we could just put a nice Adirondack chair up there and call it a fucking day.

Maybe a cupholder.

A little throw blanket.

Make it cozy.

And the preparation!

Sweet baby Jesus.

There are scent-free soaps, scent-free detergents, scent-free clothing, and special products to make you smell like absolutely nothing.

I learned this after offering to wash his hunting clothes with Tide, Downy, and Ocean Breeze scent beads.

I thought I was being a thoughtful girlfriend.

Apparently, I was preparing him to enter the woods smelling like a tropical resort.

Imagine being a deer in Vermont, minding your own business, when suddenly the forest smells like a fucking Bath & Body Works grand opening.

YOU’RE WELCOME, BAMBI.

Fishing: A Relaxing Hobby That Nearly Required Me to Call 911

Fishing seems so peaceful.

A beautiful lake. Fresh air. Sunshine. The gentle sound of water.

What could possibly go wrong?

Well, for starters, the artificial wildlife has apparently started escaping.

Jet keeps some of his fishing equipment near our coatrack and shoe bench.

One morning, I reached down to grab my shoes and spotted what appeared to be a scorpion on the floor.

A SCORPION.

IN VERMONT.

My soul immediately disconnected from my body.

I screamed, launched myself backward, threw my

purse, and scattered my belongings across the room like someone had detonated a handbag.

And this little bastard DIDN’T MOVE.

Which was terrifying because I assumed it was preparing to attack.

Upon closer investigation, I discovered it was one of Jet’s soft fishing lures.

A rubber fucking bug.

I had just performed an entire emergency evacuation procedure over a piece of silicone.

And the variety of these things is ASTOUNDING.

There are worms, frogs, crawfish, little fish, big fish, and creatures that look like they were rejected from the casting call for Jurassic Park.

Apparently, they all catch different fish under different conditions.

And I believe him.

I just don’t understand why the fish are so particular when I’ve personally witnessed a dog eat its own vomit.

Nature is confusing.

Woodworking: Where Fractions Come to Ruin My Day

Now, woodworking is actually one of my favorite things Jet does.

The man is incredibly talented.

He can take a piece of wood and turn it into something absolutely beautiful.

It’s amazing.

It’s impressive.

It’s sexy.

Until he starts explaining measurements.

Because here’s a fun fact about me.

In high school shop class, my nickname was Quarter Inch Kelly.

Why?

Because I apparently held a tape measure at whatever angle brought me the most personal joy.

Up a little. Down a little. Close enough.

My projects were always about a quarter inch off.

Fast-forward a few decades, and I now share a home with a man who treats measurements like they’re sacred scripture.

Jet: “I need this cut at 18 and seven-sixteenths.”

Me: “So… 18-ish?”

Jet: “No, babe. Seven-sixteenths.”

Me: “Right. So a little more than 18.”

Jet: “Yes, but…”

Me: “Perfect. Glad we cleared that up.”

And hanging things on walls?

Oh, that’s an EVENT.

Jet finds the studs. Gets the level. Measures the distance. Selects the appropriate hardware. Checks everything twice.

I stand six feet back, squint one eye, and say, “A little to the left.”

If left unattended, I’ll hang a 10-pound mirror with a thumbtack and a prayer.

He has gently explained why we shouldn’t do that.

Several times.

Our relationship is basically a combination of HGTV and a remedial math class.

And I wouldn’t change a thing.

Except maybe fractions.

Fuck fractions.

The Field Trips Are Where Things Get Interesting.

Now, one of my favorite things about Jet is that he genuinely enjoys spending time together.

Even running errands.

Which is adorable.

Until an innocent trip to Walmart turns into an episode of How the Fuck Did We Get Here?

Recently, he suggested we go to Barre, VT.

I could pick up a few things at Walmart, and he could stop at R&L Archery for some arrows.

Simple.

A wholesome little afternoon together.

Some shopping. Maybe lunch.

NORMAL COUPLE SHIT.

Well.

Somewhere between “I need a few arrows” and “Let’s head home,” we became the proud owners of a 20-gauge shotgun.

No arrows.

No Walmart.

Not a single item from my shopping list.

Just a shotgun and a sudden invitation to Applebee’s.

And listen.

I am a woman of principles.

But I’m also a woman who enjoys the 2 for $25 deal.

So naturally, I accepted.

We had a lovely lunch, and then we needed to get home because Jet had important business to attend to.

Sitting in a tree.

Again.

I still needed everything from Walmart.

But I had a full belly and a happy boyfriend.

Honestly, that’s a pretty successful date in my book.

Our House Is Slowly Becoming an Outdoor Recreation Center.

The funniest part about living with someone who has hobbies is that the hobbies apparently need to live with you.

Everywhere.

The fishing equipment has its designated areas.

The hunting equipment has its designated areas.

The woodworking tools have their designated areas.

And then there are the areas that have been designated by absolutely nobody but somehow contain all three.

My home office, for example.

I have carefully created a beautiful, cozy, feminine workspace.

And occasionally I walk in to discover that my desk has become a firearm-cleaning station.

Nothing says “professional working woman” quite like moving a bottle of gun oil so you can answer an email.

And the conversations we’ve started having!

“Babe, have you seen my quiver?”

“Is that the thing with the arrows?”

“Yes.”

“Then yes. I think. Maybe.”

Or…

“Have you seen my release?”

“Your what?”

“My release.”

“Are we discussing hunting equipment or something emotional?”

I have learned SO MUCH.

None of which will ever help me do my taxes.

But Here’s My Favorite Part.

I absolutely love watching Jet talk about the things he’s passionate about.

Even when I understand approximately 14% of what he’s saying.

There’s something pretty wonderful about watching someone you love get excited over something that brings them joy.

He can explain fishing lures, hunting setups, and woodworking techniques for hours.

And I will happily listen.

Mostly.

Sometimes I mentally plan what I want for a snack.

Sometimes I wonder if I remembered to switch the laundry.

Sometimes I catch myself staring at him thinking,

“God, I love this man.”

And then he’ll ask, “You know what I mean?”

And I’ll respond, “Absolutely, babe.”

I do not.

Not even remotely.

But I love him, and I’m trying.

Besides, let’s be fair.

This poor man lives with ME.

A woman who has conversations with her sourdough starter, treats cleaning the house like a competitive sporting event, and can spend 20 minutes explaining why we absolutely need another decorative pillow.

He has climbing sticks.

I have throw blankets.

He collects fishing lures.

I collect candles.

He gets excited about hunting season.

I get excited when the grocery store has my favorite coffee creamer.

We’re both a little ridiculous.

Just in completely different departments.

So Here’s to Loving a Man With Hobbies.

Here’s to the unexpected adventures.

The educational seminars nobody requested.

The mysterious packages.

The sporting goods stores .

The fishing lures that double as cardiac stress tests.

The hunting equipment that requires its own ZIP code.

The woodworking measurements that make my brain immediately shut down for scheduled maintenance.

And the little moments when you realize that even though you didn’t necessarily sign up for any of this…

You wouldn’t trade it for the world.

Because at the end of the day, I get to share my life with a man who has passions, talents, interests, and a genuine excitement for the things he loves.

And I think that’s pretty fucking wonderful.

Even if I occasionally need a glossary, a calculator, and a stiff drink to participate.

So ladies, if you’re dating a man with hobbies, embrace it.

Ask questions.

Take an interest.

Go along for the ride.

Support his passions.

And most importantly…

When he says he needs to stop at the sporting goods store for “just one thing,” EAT FIRST.

Because you could be there for three hours, and there’s a very real possibility you’re leaving with absolutely nothing you came for.

Except a shotgun.

And Spinach Artichoke Dip.

Which, in our defense, was a pretty fucking good afternoon.