Wednesday, July 25, 2012

I'm just not "country" enough

Guess what. It was hot again today, at least in the center of town where the buildings rise to block the breeze and the concrete carpet radiates hellish temperatures. It's summer for frick sake. Those of you who are complaining about the heat can kindly shut the hell up. I'll talk to you in January when you're crying about the endless stretches of subzero temps and bitching about how many times you've had to clear your driveway of snow. No whining. It's a dry heat! Just saying that makes me giggle a little. 

The Midwest in the summer, to quote my ex, is like the armpit of the United States.  "You don't have any of the water works that the coasts have, but you'll sweat yourself to death in minutes." he said. It's true. Usually. Midwest summers are the reason for words like swalls (sweaty balls), swass (sweaty ass), and swoobs (sweaty boobs). If you're smart, you'll just rub antiperspirant all over yourself. This year, however, you could find yourself sweating from the heat and dry seconds later by the sheer jealousy of the atmosphere. It will whisk away any moisture you put out there, leaving you bone dry and burning. 

Like any good child would, when the weather gets extreme I feel the need to call home and check on the mental/agricultural state of the locals (parents and sister). I prepared myself for a call last week with a cocktail. I knew based on the Weather Channel and my own yard's golden brown hue, that any lengthy conversation about how the crops are doing would just as well be accompanied by a drink. If farming were my job, I'd be having a stiff one right about now. Drink perverts. Stiff drink. No matter the outcome, I wanted to hear how everyone back home was doing. Guess what... also dry. I'll spare everyone the farm report, it's not exactly a cheerful forecast.

Image Source
Some weeks ago a friend introduced me to a few people during a night out. When we touched on the topic of "home", I found one gentleman and I had grown up relatively close to one another. He said, "Wow, you don't look like a farm girl." I suppose I don't. You know how farm girls look right? They wear gingham, cut off short shorts, and have giant boobs.  All farm girls look the same. I can see how he would mistake me for a city kid. I mean heck, I WAS wearing pants that covered my ass cheeks (hey, it was a weekday).

I should mention that I'd also left my cowboy hat at home right next to my shit-kicker cowboy boots. It's obvious that I am simply misleading the public by not wearing my ancestral costume. But when I go home, watch out. With each passing mile on the interstate I slowly morph into the traditional farm girl appearance, complete with a piece of straw in my mouth. I even start to talk differently. I say y'all and I give the 2 finger farmer wave (I actually do give the 2-finger farmer wave, but to be fair the farmers always initiate it).

Yeah, life on the farm is still like it's always been and the trek to the out house is a bitch in the winter. Every weekend there's a barn raising and sometimes, if we're really lucky, we'll make it into town and stop by the old Mercantile. That penny candy is the best. The ride home in the wagon is hard on the old buttocks, but you gotta pay to play. We drink from mason jars because we don't have a need to put on airs. Besides, they are the best for making our moonshine cocktails. And oh the cozy nights by the hearth when Mom makes her special raccoon stew, YUM!

It's been too long since I've been home. I feel the need for a hay ride and a bonfire sometime soon, but not until it cools down a bit. On a positive note, the family is coming up to the big city for the weekend. Yessireeeee they be coming to visit me in my fancy city house. I bet they'll be surprised when I show them how this indoor plumbing can save them from spider bites on the ass. Just wait til they get a load of this toilet paper stuff we have! No more wiping their backsides with the scratchy pages of the catalog. By golly, it's going to be an eye opener for them folks.

While I might not dress like I'm fresh from the corn field, if you want to talk about the crops just let me know. We can discuss nitrogen levels, subsoil moisture, projected yields, Roundup-ready seeds, or the goings on at the county fair. I wonder who won Shelby County Pork Princess this year (I'm not kidding you, that's the her title).

That's all I have for today. It's time to go get my non-farming ass on that fancy conveyor belt contraption that caused me to lose my farm girl boobs. It's too damned hot to go outside... not that I'm complaining!

This post brought to you by all things country: Straw, Corn, Soybeans, Hay bales, Pigs, Cows, Big boobs, Cowboy hats, and Shit kickers. 

No comments:

My Zimbio
Top Stories