At almost 50, and the recently divorced mother of two, most women would probably spend the weekends cleaning house, watching television, taking a trip, going to the hairdresser, visiting, shopping, volunteering, or even pickup up some extra funds by working two jobs or overtime.

Not me. Oh, I watch too much television, and I freely admit to watching Lifetime, as I am doing at the same time I’m writing this. I do clean my house from time to time, although I firmly believe there is a life after housework. I occasionally shop, and I like to travel. I like to visit occasionally, and play scrabble with my housemate, but this last weekend I threw convention to the wind and did some untypical activities for a nearly 50-year-old woman.

First off, on my way to Clearmont to visit my mother and have some quality time with my daughter, who lives with her father until she finishes school, I decided to purchase a .22 rifle for varmint control at my Mom’s ranch. I mean, we occasionally are invaded by rattlesnakes and skunks and porcupines, so a .22 made sense. Anyone who has tried to purchase a gun recently knows the vast amount of paperwork that goes into buying a simple .22 rifle. Reams and reams. (Well, three pages anyway.) Then, they need to call in the driver’s license number and then get manager approval. All that took time, especially when the clerk had to stop occasionally to wait on other customers. Finally, after an hour, I am the proud owner of a cheap .22, a cheaper scope, and 550 rounds of .22 ammunition. I feel like a real hunter now. I did have some nice rifles, given to me by my now ex-husband, who, since he gave them to me, refused to give them back to me when we got divorced.

The first item on my agenda was the rather daunting task of ‘sighting in the rifle’. Some divorced women have problems with house maintenance, or car maintenance, those pale in comparison to sighting in the rifle. I probably shot up 100 of the 550 shells just trying to get the bullets to hit near to where I wanted them. Finally, after another hour, I had a fair grouping. Then, it was off to see if I could actually hit anything other than a target or a milk jug.

On my mother’s ranch there are more than 400 acres of prairie dog villages, which is a little extreme. Think of them as large, noisy mice. I don’t mind a few here and there, but they are eating way too much grass. So, we need to work on eradicating them. I didn’t know any hunters who might want the job, so, complete with my new, now sighted in, .22 rifle, I spend the rest of that Saturday walking a ¼ mile to the nearest prairie dog town, and plinking away. I got about ten of the little varmints, and decided that was enough ammo expended for one day, as for each dog it probably took about four shells. (I’m an ok shot, but I think the gun needs a little more work on the sighting in department. Besides, the wind was blowing.)

I got sunburn, sore muscles, wound up $200 poorer after the purchase of the gun and ammo, but I felt good. How many almost 50-year-old women spend the weekend buying guns and shooting prairie dogs? Only those of us who are proud of the title of “Woman Hunter.”