My Boyfriend, The Hunter

Apparently this is deer season. Or it’s deer season in some states but not others. Or maybe it just ended. Since I’m not really inclined to shoot things, my knowledge of the hunting calendar is lacking. But recently, in one of those relationship moments where you look at your bedmate and think, “How the bloody hell did I not know that about you?” I learned that eCrush owns guns. Plural. Also, as part of his quest to out-Republican the Republicans (and maybe partially to prove his manliness despite his love of madras), he hunts.

My knowledge of eCrush’s second-amendment-loving, Bambi-killing nature came about rather abruptly. It was the holidays, he went to visit family, and I thought that meant carb-overloading, consumption of box wine, and a turkey coma. You know, like it does for most Americans. My happy illusion ended when I called him to check in.

eCrush: Can’t talk now. There is a doe in my sight line.

Me: WHAT?

eCrush: I am engaging in deer population control. This is a good thing.

Me: You are hunting? Since when do you hunt? AND you brought your iPhone into that hut tree house thing?

eCrush: It’s called a tree stand.

Me: The point is, tree stand, orange camo, IPHONE. Which one of these things doesn’t belong? Besides the obvious: YOU!

I spent hours debating my willingness to date somebody who hunts. And owns a Scent Control Parka. But ultimately, I decided I shouldn’t end a good thing when hunting ranks darn low on my General Problems With Republicans List. Also, eCrush and I are both from central Ohio. Lots of people hunt there. The appreciation of the sport is so widespread it crosses socio-economic lines and conquers political affiliation. I know women who hunt and I’ve got friends who own land specifically so they can go shoot things on it. They also have ginoramus smoker contraptions to better dry out their deer meat. And in law school, half the guys went missing each year during bow season. Those that remained were either gay or from out of state. Hell, even my dad has a BB pistol to better battle the squirrels. All that being said, I’ve become pretty acclimated to the Scary Killer Sportsman concept. I just don’t like it.

Despite my repeated aversion to stalking innocent animals and then shooting them dead, eCrush is determined that I try it. He is adamant that I’d make a great huntress. Like the DC version of Artemis. I contend that nothing about me says I Love To Spend Time In Nature, let alone Bambi Sniper. Also, with my long and sordid history of klutz behavior, I’m sure I’d pull a Cheney and then we’d be the lead story on Fox News. I can just see Shepard Smith all, “…and in a shocking story of love gone horribly wrong, a liberal DC Attorney shot her prominent Republican boyfriend in the ass yesterday. Her camp claims it was simply a hunting accident, but our anonymous White House sources suggest otherwise. For more, let’s go to…” Yeah. Nightmare.

But eCrush won’t give up. Initially, he tried a Let’s Hunt Together bribe: new shoes. Clearly, eCrush knows his target audience and he almost had me. But he fouled it up when he mentioned the shoes weren’t from Nordstroms. Instead, he intended to give me shoes designed specifically for trail hiking and by extension, suitable for prolonged tree stand time. I asked if the fancy hunting sneakers would also help me run away from rampaging bears, and eCrush didn’t think that was funny, so, end of conversation. Since then, eCrush has wisely stopped his attempts at bribery. Even he admits Midwestern Sexy does not look good in camouflage. Consequently, he’s not tried to bribe me with survivalist-wanna-be-type pants. But last night, he broke out a new tactic: proof of ability.

eCrush (batting his puppy dog eyes): Why won’t you come (insert pheasant/quail/other fowl – I know it’s a bird. Aside from that, I don’t pay attention) hunting?

Me (all please, not this again): Moral issues. We’ve been over this.

eCrush (convinced he’s got a trump card): Well, if I can prove you’d be good at it, will you agree to go?

Me (doing a killer Skeptical Nicholson impression): HA! This, I am interested in.

That’s were eCrush proudly brandished an old school Nintendo.

eCrush (all jubilant): DUCK HUNT!

Two hours later, eCrush admitted defeat. Because if my Nintendo aim was that bad? He didn’t actually want me to come along for the real life version. Score one for me. And the general wildlife population of Maryland.

Never Name Your Kid Katherine

When I was born, my dad nicknamed me Blondie. After the dog. It was not an auspicious beginning but I guess I should be grateful that Dad limited the Blondie use. While filling out the birth certificate for both Little Brother and Little Sister, he enacted the ultimate veto by ignoring the names my parents had agreed upon and rechristening both my siblings. Knowing Dad’s track record, and considering his much-loved dog was given away just a few days before I was born, it would not have been a stretch for Dad to decide Katherine was out and Blondie was in. I’m sure he’d have justified it as a memorial to that fabled Lab while dooming me to a life of explaining that, yes, I was legally named after a dog.

Aside from Blondie, my life has been awash in pet names. Actually, each phase of my life can be charted by what people were calling me at the time. Right now I’m operating under KJ, Rine (which is the bastardization of Katherine; born because eCrush is too lazy to say my full name) and Chuckles (don’t ask; I don’t get it either). My formative years were awash in Katherine derivatives: Kat, Chatty Cathy, Katy-did, Katrina Ballerina. And there was also Thunder Thighs. Yup. Little Brother bestowed that gem. He’d break it out when he was on the receiving end of an Extreme Brother Beat Down and he had no other recourse. It was sort of his verbal trump card. Its use guaranteed I’d throttle him, but he’d sacrifice because he knew how much Thunder Things pissed me off. Eventually he stopped using the nickname, but it left its mark. Strangely enough, being called Thunder Thighs has instilled a lifelong hatred of chicken wings. To this day, on 25 cent wing night, the unique logic of my ten-year-old self dominates and I can’t participate. Basically I associate chicken wings with chicken thighs and in some twisty mental way, my own thighs. So, eating chicken wings? It’s like doing a Donner Party on yourself.

Then there was the whole Katie- Kate-Katherine evolution. Being called Katie was acceptable until about eighth grade. At that point, it no longer aligned with my newfound Mature Sensibilities so I took advantage of moving to a new school and renamed. Goodbye, Katie. Hello, Kate. After years of dedicated correction, I finally got my parents to drop the “i.” Yet my extended family remains rooted in Katie. It’s been over a decade since I’ve undergone the Kate upgrade, but if I phone any of my assorted aunts and self-identify as such, there’s a pause followed by, “Who?” At that point I’ve got a choice: hang up or sigh, give in to 29 years of history and grudgingly call myself by the name they recognize.

In college, when I tried to make the move from Kate to Katherine, I stupidly mentioned it to my mom. Her response was a two page email wondering if my constant name switches were an early warning sign of schizophrenia and offering medical attention while I was still on her insurance. I tried to explain that it wasn’t so much multiple personalities as it was reverting to the name she picked out. Also, there a desire to be a bit more professional than the name Katy-Did allowed. Still, I never made it to Katherine-status in college. Too many high schoolers followed me from my piece of suburbia. You can only grunt, “My name is Katherine,” so many times before you accept four more years of name stagnation. It took ‘til law school to make transition. Of course, for the first three weeks I had to muzzle Aaron Reed, who followed me from high school to college and then onto get out JDs. Still, it was worth it.

But rewind all the way back in eighth grade, when I was attempting that Katie/Kate swap. That’s about the same time I got another stellar nickname. A week into classes, there was an all grade assembly which included a segment I fondly refer to New Kid Embarrassment Times A Million. Each of the three new kids was asked to stand up. One by one, the guidance counselor announced our names, where we’d previously attended school and a fun fact about us. (This is Chucky! He comes to us from Cleveland and likes to play the tuba! Poor Chucky. All hope of moving up the social ladder pitifully crushed thanks to the public identification of his Bandie status.) I was the last one she introduced. Blessedly, she got the Kate part right and my fun fact was innocuous. But then she revealed where I’d last lived. From that day, every boy from my particular piece of Ohio called me Abu Dhabi. Even at our ten year reunion.

So, of course, when Aaron “I stalked Katherine through the great educational institutions of the world” Reed would see me in the college dining hall, he’d shout, “Yo! Abuuuuuuuu!” I’d pretend to ignore the Crazy Man while silently renewing my vow of revenge on that guidance counselor. The one time a college friend was around for Aaron’s Abu Display, I refused to tell her the story. After all, this was the same friend who had ushered in a new age of nicknames. The last thing she needed was more ammunition; she’d done enough name damage during sophomore year when she drunkenly realized masturbate ends in an “ate” sound. She was so drunk-excited; you’d have thought she’d invented the orgasm. That night of alcoholic excess kicked off the MasturKate era. And also ForniKate, EradiKate, ExhilarKate, ExonerKate, TitillKate, and 226 other ends-in-ate names. I know the exact count because we kept a running list in rainbow colored marker on our dry erase board for the semester. And junior year, the list evolved into a drinking game. I’m told that game was passed on, sort of like a nickname virus, through my specialized program, where it lives on and routinely taxes the minds of underage binge drinkers, as they struggle to think of new “ate” words.

Admittedly, it’s great that my nickname suffering has led to increased alcoholic consumption. My inner sorority girl is skipping around in delight. But really, I’m not sure that particular glory makes up for moments like last night’s drunk dial. A college friend left a message. It was four minutes of her chanting, “MasturKate likes to ForniKate! I rhyme! MasturKate likes to ForniKate! I rhyme!”  Over. And. Over. Again.  Moments like that? They make me wish Dad had named me after the dog.

Wholeheartedly Endorsing the Pedestrian Lifestyle

That great font of wisdom, my Dad, once said driving a car is like riding a bike: even if you don’t do it for awhile, you never forget how. While that may be true, I don’t find the concept particularly comforting when the object being maneuvered weights over a ton and doesn’t come with training wheels. Still, the other day I needed to go to Ikea and all that Swedish goodness is only reachable by car. There was no better time to test Dad’s assertion, break in my virginal Zipcar membership and drive for the first time in over a year. Holy Mary and Little Baby Jesus. I thought I was going to die.

District driving is nothing like Ohio driving. Back home, people turn on their car and instantly morph into Cautious Grandma. It’s as if their feet have never been introduced to the gas pedal. At all times, they keep 30 car lengths between them and the vehicle in front; more if any form of precipitation is forecasted. And Ohio drivers don’t believe in signaling. Instead, they rely on Driving Telepathy and reflexes to avoid accidents when somebody changes lanes or makes a turn. Not so in Rosslyn. I was on the road no more than thirty seconds when I saw my first turn signal. Initially, I couldn’t figure out what it was. I just kept thinking, “Ooooooohhhh. Pretty blinky light!” But when the car made a right, I realized I had just witnessed proper signaling behavior.

Drivers around here also believe in highway speeds over 45 mph. Actually, it’s either 80 mph or traffic jam. Those are the two options and nothing else is acceptable. Well, there is “tourist speed,” but only people with Midwestern license plates can get away with it. And DC drivers stay two centimeters away from the bumper in front of them. There’s also aggressive weaving and merging into spaces where a car should only fit with Harry Potter Bus-Squishing Magic. Forget Cautious Grandma; DC driving is NASCAAR on crack.

Despite all that, I made it to my destination. Sure, I shaved a few years off my life expectancy, but I’ll sacrifice for Ikea. On the way home, I hit traffic. Lots and lots of beltway traffic. According to the radio, I needed to get off the highway if I wanted to make it back to Chez Apartment before the spring thaw. It seemed like the perfect time to break out the portable GPS eCrush had left at my place and I now owned thanks to post-break-up property rights. I turned it on, typed, and voila! A new route through the city.

All was well until I hit DuPont, the Circle of Death. I am still not sure how that thing works. Supposedly, I entered the Sixth Circle of Hell by way of Mass Ave. Problem was I somehow ended up in the outer ring and my GPS said I wanted to be on the inside. But, I couldn’t get over, even with DC-style signaling. I just went around and around, the GPS was squawking out re-routes and me cursing my inability to switch lanes. After my fourth circle, I decided to give up on my original path and take Connecticut. GPS would catch up eventually.

I saw a Connecticut sign and turned. Drat. Unless Chez Apartment had recently teleported to Woodley Park, it was not the right direction. I spotted a place to turn around, moved into the middle lane to make a left and suddenly there were a million car horns blaring. I have since been informed there is a Middle Lane Direction Switcheroo Thing on Connecticut. How was I supposed to know? It wasn’t in my Welcome to DC Handbook and I’d never encountered this traffic situation before. Michigan left? Sure, I’ve done it. But switching the direction of the center lane’s traffic in the middle of the day? WTF? Figuring out those lane lines and traffic patterns was waaaaayyyy too urban for my Ohio-level driving skills. Knowing those horns were because of me, I made an emergency left, missed a T-boning by millimeters, pulled over and promptly had a panic attack.

There are times when I can’t pull out my big girl panties. No matter how much I want to, my Girl Power Meter is too depleted. It rarely happens, but when it does, I just stop all semblance of functioning. This was one of those moments. Even so, I initially didn’t want to admit it. Several times, I started the car up and tried to pull away from the curb. But each time, I felt the waves of a panic attack. I thought maybe a walk would fix it. Thirty minutes and a scoop of Cold Stone later, no luck. Heck, I even considered sacrificing my dignity and texting eCrush an SOS. But ultimately, I knew I this was my own disaster and I had to fix it. It was time to break the emergency glass, so to speak. Sighing, I dialed information and asked for a tow truck company.

That’s right, I towed my Zipcar from Maryland, through the District and Georgetown, across Key-always-freaking-congested Bridge, and into Rosslyn. Do not ask me what it cost. I don’t want to think about it.

Goooo Bucks! Or my faulty logic supporting OSU’s chance of victory over USC

Yeah, yeah, every Buckeye Fan knows this game is the Big One and things aren’t looking all that great for The Ohio State University. Something about Beanie’s toe injury and the OSU vs. OU game and bladity blah blah whatever. I think it’s time for a reminder of what the Boys in Scarlet have working for them. Without further ado, may I present…

The Non-Sporty-Girl’s Guide to Why OSU Will Rock This Week!

1. God – he’s always for the underdog. I mean, David and Golliath, Michigan and Appalachian State? Such a given that the Big Guy will be sportin’ some scarlet and gray come Saturday night.
2. The guys on ESPN keep saying that the Bucks always play to the level of their opponents and only By A Miracle From God (see #1) do they squeak out a win. Personally, I think it’s so the fans get the maximum enjoyment from each game. Or something.
3. OSU’s uniforms are prettier. And come with stickers.
4. OSU has players with names that sound like venereal diseases. Think Laurinaitis, Chekwa, Pretorius, Beanie. If they could get through fifth grade and live to tell the tale, I am sure they can kick a little USC football ass.
5. OSU’s not beaten USC since I’ve been alive. They are overdue for victory.
6. Because my Magic 8 Ball said OSU is going to win. It just knows.

This week’s True Fan of the Week:

There are temporary tattoos and then there are The Real Deal: OSU Tattoos. That’s some Fan Dedication.

And Tressel gives a little I-O love! (It’s towards the end; be patient and you shall be rewarded accordingly)

Friday means… Go Bucks!

Any True Buckeye Fan knows that last weekend, The Ohio State University beat Youngstown State 43-nada. Not to underestimate the mightyness or general sporting abilities of the Penguins, but if OSU’s victory hadn’t been total and maybe a wee bit crushing, then the Bucks would have been in for a rough season. As it stands, I’d say things are looking pretty good in Buckeye Land. Well, aside from Beanie’s big toe injury. But that’s negligible. I am confident that on the 13th, Beanie’s gonna show USC Who’s The Man.

But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. This weekend Coach Tressel and the Boys take on Ohio University (boo! hiss!). In preparation, I bring True Fans everywhere…

…wait for it…

Pictures from last week at RiRa! (Oooh, Baby! Good times!)

O-H!

Somebody does not like early morning pictures, even after a beer.

Other fans enjoying the Crushing Victory!

And the True Fan of the Week:

Only in Ohio would there be an OSU Lawn. These are some mad mowing skills!

Today’s Metro Lesson: You take one for your football team

Yep, I was the crazy person today on the Metro and boy did I get some Serious Looks. It was understandable. I mean, how often do you see a person wearing a nut necklace during the early morning commute? Apparently very few people in The District are familiar with the Wonders of The Ohio State University Football Team and the resulting fandom. Being a True Fan who is psyching up for the Season Opener tomorrow, I decided to keep with Tradition and sport my OSU gear at work. Yes, I know that actual game is not for 24 hours, but in the Holy Land (aka Columbus, O-H-I-O) people break out the jerseys on Friday* and Saturday. During football season in major swaths of Ohio, Fridays mean jeans and OSU paraphernalia, even in the work place. I was not about to be left out just because I transplanted.

While jeans are a no-go at the Place of Lawyerly Things, I am totally wearing my Block O earrings and my Buckeye necklace. The coup de resistance is I’m “Sporting a Tressel.” For the unfamiliar, that’d be a sweater vest. Mine just happens to be scarlet. Oh, and my long shorts thingies are regulation gray. I’m in full OSU Glory and I look too cute for words.

And just so you know I’m not the only crazy person today, Big Boss is wearing his OSU belt, he’s Sporting a Tressel with an OSU logo (hard core) and…wait for it…he’s wearing a temporary Block O tattoo on his cheek. Maybe I’ll do that next week.

Go Bucks! (See, even Jesus is on board.)

* Note the copier and files in the background. Like I said, I am NOT making this up.

Championship Countdown

At the Place Where I Do Lawyerly Things, I was in the kitchen this morning toasting my English Muffin and buttering the numerous nooks and crannies. Somebody was asking all the Lawyerly People who were waiting in agony while the coffee brewed what they would do if they could do one thing totally out of character and still remain anonymous. My answer: streak across the field with scarlet and gray body paint at the OSU game on Monday. In this town, it would become legend. I’ve always wanted to be legendary, even if nobody knew it was Katherine who was the Woman of Greatness.

6 Days!
Go Bucks!

Vote for the God of Football!

It goes without saying that Jim Tressel is a minor deity. Thus, I have to vote for him. Repeatedly.

My Ode to Ohio State Football

Yeah, I know, I didn’t go to The Ohio State University. But I’ve lived in C-bus for long enough to catch Buckeye Fever. It snuck up on me, infiltrating my soul until I learned to detest all things Azure Blue and Butt Ugly Yellow (which is passed off as Maize). Buckeye Love has even gotten me to refer to The State Up North as, well, The State Up North or The Place We Should Let the Canadians Have For Free. And that was while I lived there and had to be polite about it. Anyway, I’m an Ohio State fan and in case I’ve not made my feelings clear all ready, I pretty much think The Big House could be blown up by terrorists and it would take me a very long minute or two to realize that it might be a bad thing. And only then because we couldn’t go stomp on Michigan on their own turf… Well, maybe I’m not that extreme, but it’s close.

In case you live in a hole under a rock on the farthest reaches of Mars and were unaware, this weekend is the OSU vs. Michigan game. It’s a No. 1 vs. No. 2 match up. It’s the greatest rivalry in college football and this will determine who goes to the really big football game that is often tied into corn chips (but might not be this year, I can’t remember). On the side of Good, there is Coach Tressel (aka God in a Sweater Vest) and on the opposing side is Coach Carr (aka That Sad Sad Man). While I am sure Coach Carr is a swell gentleman who was simply led astray at a young age, I have placed my faith in the power of the sporty sweater vest. I know Carr is going to get The Laurinatis (aka some sort of funky mouth growth that seems to infect all coaches that oppose OSU this season) at some point this week and really, I just feel bad for him. It looks like it hurts.

At the place where I do lawyerly things, a misguided Michigan fan suggested that if OSU lost, perhaps all the OSU supporters at my place of work should do something appropriately humiliating. And perhaps the appropriate humiliate should consist of all of us running en masse around the outside of our complex while in the buff. Generally, I am all for nekkid time but I don’t really want to include indecent exposure on the felony/misdemeanor section of my next job application. Still, I like the idea of laying something on the line here. Thus, loyal readership (this means you, Phil, and you, Mom, and Laina and maybe the other person who reads this blog), I am open to suggestions (please put them in comments). After all, I’m not worried because WE ARE GONNA SPANK MICHIGAN.

Go Bucks!

Wind, and hail, and tornadoes, oh my! Or, a blow by blow account of the adventures of Johnny

The wicked wind from the west struck the Wonderful Land of Columbus yesterday evening. It appears that much damage was done around the plush land generally referred to as New Albany. (For that lone loyal reader not familiar with the Wonderful Land of Columbus, New Albany is where the Amazing Wizard known as Les Wexner rules in a generally benevolent and white-picket-fence kind of way.) One victim of last night’s gusty winds was a small boy named Johnny…

When the warning sirens wailed yesterday eve, Johnny was diligently practicing guitar in his Grand Guitar Room, located near several windows on the second floor of his quaint Bachelor Pad. Aware of the dangers of gusting winds and windows on the second floor, and not wishing to become the local version of Dorothy Gail and Toto, the smart lad grabbed his trusty guitar and ran post-haste to the bathroom (because he does not have a basement — which he had previously noted might be a problem if a tornado ever came to the enchanting New Albany area). There Johnny bravely waited out the inclement weather, with his beloved guitar, and with the door open. After all, Johnny is a valiant lad who scoffs in the face of a little light wind…

After the sirens ceased to cry their warning, Johnny emerged from the bathroom unscathed. He stored his trusty guitar back in the Grand Guitar Room, went to the food preparation area and grabbed some Nectar of the Mexican Gods (better known as Corona). Being a Man of His Word, Johnny then hopped into his Man-Mobile and drove to the Fair Katherine’s house. The lovely Katherine was providing Johnny some evening sustenance and Johnny knew that the Mexican feast would just not be the same without the Corona he had promised to bring. In order to keep his word, our daring hero traveled through rain, hail, and assorted winds in order to drink Corona and eat tacos with the damsel, Katherine.

After the many weather induced trials and tribulations, the dedicated Johnny arrived at Katherine’s Lovely Townhouse. There, they ate the Mexican repast, while Johnny dashingly prevented yet another Total System Meltdown of the Work Mainframe, fielded multiple telephone calls from concerned loved ones, and managed to tell the graceful hostess an amazing story about some of his recent daring-do.

Later, our wandering adventurer and the beauteous damsel decided to adjourn to a local drinking institution and meet some friends. While there, Johnny received a frantic call of distress from a weary member of the fabulous New Albany area. It seems this poor soul saw the tornado in the vicinity of Johnny’s quaint Bachelor Pad. He likewise retreated in its wake, to a bathroom, and valiantly held the door against the gusting winds while the three lovely ladies he rescued screamed their heads off from fear induced by the tornado that was ripping their humble shelter apart around them. At hearing this news, Johnny wisely departed the local watering hole, once again returning to the fabled land of New Albany in order to offer his aid to the distressed residents (and to check on the status of his trusty guitar, oh, and his house, too). There, Johnny learned that a nasty, evil gas leak was preventing him from returning to his Bachelor Pad and his trusty guitar. Johnny wisely retreated, in the face of the villianous gas, in order to better fight another day…

Now the world waits, with baited breath, to learn if our hero’s faithful sidekick, The Gee-tar (and the house, too), will be all right…Stay tuned…