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There comes a point in every relationship when one partner wants something more. I don't mean attention or romance, or even that silly tingly feeling when you're first dating. I’m talking concrete stuff. A thing I want to do or acquire that holds no value whatsoever to my mate. Worse, it will cost him either time, money, or a stint of eating his own cooking.
This week the something I wanted hit on all three cylinders.
Obviously this called for extreme measures. As a softening up method I’ve had considerable success with blueberry pie, but alas…no blueberries on hand. Ditto for the coconut required to whip up a German chocolate cake and gooey cooked frosting. Meatloaf topped with my own special sauce comes a close third but darned if I hadn’t already wasted that one on Tuesday night dinner.
So, food was out. The man hasn’t gone and done anything thoughtless, expensive or frivolous in months, which meant guilt was off the table. Only one option left.
“You need any help with chores?” I asked.
“You need any help with chores?” I asked.
“Actually, yes. I’m headed up to clean out the calving stall. I could use a hand.”
Oh, ugh.
I'm not exactly the delicate type. We raised pigs when I was a kid; I can handle stench. But the calving stall? It has other stuff. Namely...afterbirth. So you’re not just scooping poop here. There are unexpected slimy bits and you have to fend off the dog, who considers them a delicacy, and I will not have afterbirth breath in my face at six o'clock in the morning. And yes, I am aware that she trotted outside and found another pile of identical grossness to chew on but I abide by my seven year old’s number one rule of life:
Oh, ugh.
I'm not exactly the delicate type. We raised pigs when I was a kid; I can handle stench. But the calving stall? It has other stuff. Namely...afterbirth. So you’re not just scooping poop here. There are unexpected slimy bits and you have to fend off the dog, who considers them a delicacy, and I will not have afterbirth breath in my face at six o'clock in the morning. And yes, I am aware that she trotted outside and found another pile of identical grossness to chew on but I abide by my seven year old’s number one rule of life:
If Mommy didn’t see it, it didn’t happen.
(He has yet to comprehend why this rule fails him utterly when my digital camera is involved, but that’s another story.)
I waited until we were almost done with the stall before I said, oh-so-casually, “There are really cheap fares to New York in May and that’s right when I’ll be finishing up my book so it would be awesome to sit down face to face with my agent to go over the final edits, but I need to buy my ticket right away before the price goes up…”
What was he gonna do, turn me down flat when I was standing knee deep in cow manure and slime, sweating on a twenty degree day? Besides, through pure luck I had happened upon one of those irrefutable truths of the universe.
I waited until we were almost done with the stall before I said, oh-so-casually, “There are really cheap fares to New York in May and that’s right when I’ll be finishing up my book so it would be awesome to sit down face to face with my agent to go over the final edits, but I need to buy my ticket right away before the price goes up…”
What was he gonna do, turn me down flat when I was standing knee deep in cow manure and slime, sweating on a twenty degree day? Besides, through pure luck I had happened upon one of those irrefutable truths of the universe.
It’s hard to say no to a woman holding a pitchfork.
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For those of you who have nothing better to do at 9:05 am MDT on Thursday, March 29th, I will be doing a guest spot on KSEN radio with Mark Daniels. I believe it will be streaming live on ksenam.com if you're out of our area and would like to listen in.
One caveat: I can't get the stream to work via Internet Explorer, I have to use Google Chrome, but if you haven't tried Chrome I highly recommend it anyway as our issues with viruses and such have dropped to almost nothing since we switched.
Now, off to practice the piece above for the thirty-seventh time in rehearsal while I try to figure out why every time I read aloud I start to sound like I was born in Dallas.
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9 comments:
New York! I will wave to you from across the river! Seriously, if you need any help...well, I'm sure Janet could help with that, so I'll stop sounding like a stalker.
I always sound outstanding when I'm reading bedtime books to Four and Five. Like a voice-over goddess! Not so much when I'm reading my own stuff. Good luck during the interview!
The accent is interesting. In a state settled by Missourians, Scandinavians and a few Texas drovers we tend to sound like Texans unless we are in Texas. I vaguely remember reading a report by an expert on the subject stating that years ago. I usually only remember this when I hear my own voice recorded.
Megan: Really? Popping over to your blog now for more info and perhaps to arrange lunch or something.
Stan: Considering my other options around here are Albertan and rez-speak, maybe the drawl isn't so bad, ennit? Or is the eh?
Kari:
Really! I would gladly meet you for lunch. My email address is on my profile page. Drop me a note anytime.
I’m pleased you have an audience for your work; I’ll read it.
When I tell stories of how I grew up, a lot of folks change the subject (can’t blame them), or flatly deny those things ever happened. I think cleaning a chicken coop (the ammonia smell was nearly overwhelming), ranks right up there with afterbirth.
Darlene: Ugh. Chickens. No thanks. Beyond the stench, I've had some bad pecking experiences that have left me with a feather phobia.
I've never had the, er, pleasure of pitching poop. Been a town clown all my life! Now New York! I'll happy to be a piece of your luggage!
Rhonda: Pitching poop is the ultimate full body workout. Swear. Come on out and I'll turn you loose on the barn and it'll be just like going on a spa retreat with Jillian Michaels. I can even yell at you while you scoop if you want.
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