When my husband started hunting, I mean, really leaned into it — target in the backyard, arrow holes in the shed wall, multiple game freezers in the garage — he joined an organization. 

A hunting organization.  

Well, it’s actually a hunting, fishing, and general outdoorsy-type-people organization. Their missions include protecting public lands and getting people outdoors. 

As if I can’t live a totally healthy life from my sofa.  

I mean, my sofa is directly across from a large picture window. Do you know what I can see through that window? 

Yeah. The outdoors. 

Plus, I love giant-creature-in-the-water-eating-people movies. 

Do you know where those take place? 

Outside. 

So I can see all the outside I ever want to see while people are mauled onscreen. 

Thanks. 

The latest edition of this organization’s print journal includes a tutorial on gradually reducing soap use, then showers in general. 

Because you’ll never see a wild animal if you smell like Irish Spring. 

Ick. 

I will never see eye-to-eye with this organization. 

And yet, I love the people in this organization.  

I mean, love them. Like giant-creature-in-the-water-eating-people-movie love them. 

I even write for this organization, from time to time. 

They say they love me back, these people of this organization, but I’m not so sure.  

I think I’m kind of a pest. 

When my husband said friends he made through this organization would stay with us for a night this week, I said, “Cool.” 

But what I did was spiral. 

Stay? Here?  

These guys I love and kind of idolize?  

Yes, idolize! They have a point with their outdoor lifestyle. They’re happy and calm and incredibly intelligent, every single member I’ve met. 

And I have met a lot of members. 

I tag along with my husband to their national conference. It’s become our escape, a romantic getaway. 

At this year’s conference, I watched a live tutorial on extracting lymph nodes from deer for disease testing. 

So sexy. 

Ooh. And I watched a turkey calling contest. 

Let me tell you something. We’ll all be lucky if I’m not stocking diapers come the New Year. Turkey calling? Please. 

I so want to be like them, these outdoorsy people I revere. 

But I’ll never be like them because when I go outside the skinks poke their scary little skink heads out of the creepy crack in the concrete out front and I scurry back to my giant creature movies. 

And now I have these super Zen, brilliant guys I kind of worship about to stay in my teen– and dog-worn house. 

Suddenly, every bit of chipped paint, every ceiling crack, every dog hair gathering in the corners no matter how often I sweep — it’s all magnified. 

They’ll think we live like slobs, these guys. Like the people on the news that get arrested for having 100 cats but nine of them have been dead for weeks, and there are no litter boxes and all the furniture is full of holes. 

That’s who they’ll think we are.  

I immediately made a list. A list of things to do to get the house ready. 

If one thing can make you feel better faster than a giant-creature-in-the-water-eating-people movie, it’s a list. 

First on the list was cleaning, obviously. And tidying up. 

Which is different from cleaning. 

I had to weed the garden — front yard and back — and sweep the deck. Clean out the fridge and do all the laundry. 

All of it. 

I had to finally, finally change the last two doorknobs upstairs so all the doorknobs match. I had to paint, of course. Get new carpets. New furniture. 

And shop for groceries. 

Oh no. Groceries. 

What can I make these guys for dinner? My experience has been hunters, anglers, foragers, and the outdoors-loving public in general tend toward great culinary skills. 

I — I don’t tend toward great culinary skills.  

Unless — can I make them chocolate chip cookies for dinner? Would that work? Because my chocolate chip cookies are impressive. I mean, these guys might love me as much as I love giant-creature-in-the-water-eating-people movies if I make them my chocolate chip cookies. 

I’ve spent three days checking items from my to-do list, cleaning until my podcast download tab emptied. 

I didn’t paint.  

Not because painting for houseguests is ridiculous. 

It’s not ridiculous. 

It’s just that, if I started, I wouldn’t stop.  

The carpets are still the same tattered brown piles that unraveled before the carpet layers even made it home. 

And the furniture. Don’t even get me started. 

But I finished the other tasks on my to-do list, luxuriating in a hot shower after three days of scrubbing and vacuuming, repairs, and laundry.  

I painted my nails, the old polish worn bare from bleaching the showers and yanking the weeds. 

I ate a few cookies, for the good job I’d done. 

That was about the time my beagle, Pete, vomited his kibble. 

It was in the kitchen. The dining room. The rec room. He just walked around, regurgitating dog food already smelly on its way down. 

Then he went right back to eating. 

How defeating. 

Time for a giant creature movie.