Kiss My Bass

Mr. Ex is a man's man, and not in The Crying Game sort of way.

He likes cars. He likes shoot 'em up movies. He likes loud music. He likes beer. And he likes getting his hands dirty. And me? Well, I like Mr. Ex. Enough said.

Mr. Ex is a project kind of guy. He's at his best when he's busy with his hands. And while I can think of a bunch of things he can do to keep his hands busy -- laundry, dishes, taking out the trash -- he has loftier ideas. It was just over a month ago that he took on the mother of odd projects, repairing a boat that seemed beyond salvagable.

When he brought home the clunker, it was covered in barnacles. In fact, our driveway smelled like the dumpster of a seafood restaurant for a week. The boat was quite an undertaking, but I'd be lying if I said I didn't have my doubts.

But lo and behold just five short weeks later, the boat has been beautified. And while the dishes, laundry and doghair piled up, Mr. Ex has given new meaning to the term shining shit. In fact, upon close inspection, I've decided I'd ride on his vessel anytime.

After spending most of Saturday working on his boat, Mr. Ex decided we needed some quality time together. A night on the town was in order. So where do we go? Why Bass Pro Shops, of course. It's every man's playground.

Now, I'll preface this by saying that our trip to Bass Pro Shops (BPS) had nothing to do with Mr. Ex's boat... supposedly. While walking into the store, I secretly prayed the big fish on the sign would swallow me whole. I detested Bass Pro Shops. It brought back a lot of bad memories from my time with the Fedster. Many a dollar was wasted at the BPS. Many a fight was had as he loaded up the shopping cart, blowing his wad. I felt a wave of anxiety wash over me as we stepped foot in the store.