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Dan has gone off to try his hand at murdering some unsuspecting bird in cold blood. Please… don’t wish him luck. Wish me luck. Or the bird.

I guess I understand Dan’s need for the whole beer drinking, ball scratching hunting thing, but I am really NOT interested in seeing pictures of my husband posing with a dead creature.

I am also not interested in him bringing home said dead creature for us to consume (as if either of us would know what to do with it anyway). I’m no feminist, but I can really do without the hunter-gatherer thing. If he needs to hunt and gather, he can hunt for the items on our list and gather them into the basket at Wal-Mart.

I am absolutely not interested in paying a bunch of money for someone (even if he is a friend) to stuff the dead creature, give it fake eyeballs and then attach it to a piece of wood. Ick.

Have I mentioned, by the way, that it costs money to murder birds? $200 just for the chance to kill one. And that’s not including all the “supplies” a guy needs to go on one of these manventures.

So, after a crazy day of t-ball (we all know how I feel about that), soccer (bad, but not as bad) and a birthday party, Dan packed up his man stuff and left…

Left me with four young children, two of whom are currently on a pooping strike. (The cat, unfortunately, is not. He’s just on a litter box strike.)

Left me with two Uppercase Living parties to close, which requires me to have sane, adult conversations on the phone during daylight hours. Right.

Left me almost out of Diet Dr. Pepper (NOT good) and only have about three diapers in the house. (The one in diapers is not on a pooping strike.) This means a trip to Wal-Mart to do the female version of hunt and gather. Do you know how much fun it is to go to Wal-Mart with my four little darlings? Um. Yeah. Wendy’s powerlift class at the Y is more pleasurable. Speaking of which, I may have to get help loading the Dr. Pepper in to my cart.

I’d say I’m a tweensy bit stressed. But there’s a cure for that! Mommy Juice! Just a glass or two and my outlook would be much brighter, dontcha think? But, oh, that’s right! I’m on a $%$#@# diet. One that doesn’t allow for a SINGLE DROP of alcohol for TWO WEEKS. The same diet that my wonderful husband started with me and swore he’d abide by religiously… right before embarking on the bird murdering spree. I wonder how the diet is going for him? Somehow I don’t think the case of Yuengling and the fifth of whiskey he loaded up as he left were gifts to be consumed entirely by someone else.

So… when you’re thinking about us this week, wish me luck. Wish the kids luck. Wish all the turkeys in Missouri luck. But don’t wish Dan luck. If he comes home bragging about a murder, dragging a body behind him, I’m going to have to break the diet. In a serious way.