Now I Ain't Falling For That

As a country girl, I sometimes fish. Not very often. Fishing is not my passion. I'd rather ride in the boat and drink beer. Usually I don't want to actually catch anything because if I catch it I have to clean it and I despise cleaning fish, especially catfish (which, for those of you who don't know, requires nailing the fish's head to a pole and pulling off its skin with pliers). I don't see the point of catching fish just to throw them back. I mean, why bother?  But every once in a while, I get a craving for fried fish. Frozen fish is just not the same.

So when my country roots call, I grab a friend and go fishing. I do my best to have the friend clean the fish. I'll say I need to make up some biscuits and get the oil good and hot so I can start frying. Oh, and go head and fillet those fish for me, would you?

Kevin and I had about 7 or 8 fishing poles. When he moved out, he took ALL of them. One was my father's and I'm pissed off about that. Two were mine and he shouldn't have taken those either.

Every time Kevin wanted to fish (which was way more than I did), he get all the poles out and make a selection. He'd say, 'This is Jack's, I won't take it.' Or, 'Do you mind if I borrow yours?'

He knows perfectly well it was wrong to take all the poles. I think he did it deliberately so I would have to call him. I think this because he left the tackle box I gave him for Valentine's Day a few years back. How does anyone take rods and reels but leave behind the hooks, floats, lures, and line? What is he going to catch without a hook?

It's probably killing him. He's probably wondering right now, WHEN will she go out to the store room?!

But I am so not calling.

Should he call me, I'll say something along the lines of, 'I'll let Daddy know you're bringing his fishing pole to his house.'

I'm not about to get hooked.