Monday, July 4, 2011

We don't do that here... that I know of

"I need a vacation. Ugh. Help. :)" he said.

So, I offered my humble abode. 

"LOL!! Me in South Dakota. I might snap after 10 minutes. There's only so much cow tipping I can do. ;)" he replied.

Now wait one damn minute. While it's true that I grew up in Iowa and currently live in South Dakota, I have never in my life tipped a cow. To be honest... I don't know a single freakin' person who has. We OWNED f*cking cattle and had every damn opportunity to get out there and push the big bastards over I suppose, but who in the hell would willingly walk through a cow-pie minefield in the middle of the night in search of a sleeping bovine? 

Cow tipping? People should stop believing stereotypes. Seriously. Let me give you a realistic look at a weekend where I grew up. Let's travel back in time to 1991, shall we?

Friday night rolls around. I check my twirling uniform. White polyester long sleeved leotard. Check. Sequin accessories. Check. Gloves. Check. Ugly black skirt. Check. Uglier black shoes. Check. And we're off to the football game. The girls and I wait patiently for half time to roll around and make our way to the football field. Mentally we run through the formations in our heads while marking time on the sidelines. It's cold as ____ out here. 

"Linette? Check me. Am I nipping? How many maxi pads do I freaking need to keep my nipples from poking out of this thing? I swear I'm going to take an eye out. Could they make this uniform more God-Awful? Yep... you too. Nice nips."

And we're off. Two routines done. Flags down. Poms up. Poms down. Flags up. There's my mom in the bleachers next to my aunt, laughing their asses off. Mmmhmm. Ha ha. Yeah, we're nipping out here. We get it. Alright... off the field and out of these clothes. I'm sure we're supposed to stay for the whole game, but we've got places to go, people to see, beer to drink. 

I'm not saying we never went 'country'. We did. Country roads were frequented by nearly everyone I knew. Most of us lived on one and that's where our beer dealers were waiting. It's funny how as a grown woman I won't accept a drink from someone I don't know, but back in the day we would GIVE money to older rather unattractive men to buy us beer. Times sure have changed. If you slipped an old guy a $20 he would pick you up a case of Old Mill or PBR or if you were super fancy.. a few bottles of Strawberry Hill or TJ Swan. Yes, he got to keep the change. Don't be an ass. It was that or put out and none of us were about to go there. 

Anyway... The best way to spend a Friday night back then was to find "the party". It could be anywhere; Someone's house, a public dance, etc. as long as there was music. There would be laughing, dancing, odd hook-ups (not me), break ups, crying, puking (okay one time that was me), and generally a moment of panic when you realized the person who was supposed to drive you home had given up and left. 

The next morning was usually filled with lying about your whereabouts the night before, scrambling to remember the score of the game in the event that you were asked, rushing to get to work on time, praying to God that he would stop the pounding in your head, and making plans to do it all over again that night. 

Now, you can clearly see that not one f*cking time did we go out into a pasture or a cattle yard in search of a dozing moo cow. To this day I'm not sure who in the hell tipped the first cow, how many people have actually gone tipping, or if cows really do sleep standing up. I'm not even going to dignify that bullshit with a Google search! 

So next weekend we're all going Snipe hunting. Who's in? 

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