Dear hunting club husbands: the Wife Union has voted for a Strike!

We demand an attitude adjustment, boys!

We went to dinner  all week
with Jason looking like this.

Even Mr. Brodes has turned primal on me!

Jason killed 3 deer in the first two days this week.  

Dear Men of Arkansas,

It's been a long first week of gun hunting season. We've put up with the 4am alarm clock, unkempt facial hair, giant bottles of Scent Buster shampoo falling on our toes in the shower, bloody piles of towels in the hallway, antlers drying on the fence, muddy floor mats, nonstop episodes of "Bow Madness" clogging up the DVR, bullets, camo, smashed pop cans, and the odor of dirt and pheromones. While we love the freezers full of venison and all the jerky, we have one request: please clean up after yourselves. You may have gone all "Fred Flinstone and Barney Rubble" for the week, but we are not Wilma and Betty. We are more Jane Jetson and unless you plan on bringing in Rosie the robot maid to scrub the muck and pheromones out of the bathtub and load your dishes into the dishwasher, you might want to do it yourselves. If you chose to continue to be  cavemen INSIDE the house, we will have no choice but to devolve too. And trust us, nobody wants an Ice Age wife.

     

This is what you're used to. This is me with no dishes in the sink
thinking  about how much I love you, babe.

Me on strike. See that nutty look in my eyes? Don't make me go there.