Today, we went for hay. It is a necessity but as so many "must-do's" are, is not so fun. For the hay to be ready (for after all it is just dried grass tied in bundles) it must be hot outside. Freakin' hot. Lay in the shade and pant like a dog hot. If we could just do it in winter I wouldn't mind doing it, but, there you go. Since it's an outdoor activity in the sun, you must wear lots of sunscreen. And then the little itchy bits of hay stick to you, and get in your bra, or your tank top, or whatever.
And forget the romantic ranch hand fantasy, ladies. There are no hunky young studs in cowboy hats and sun-bronzed bare torsos buckin' those hay bales. Just old fellas with farmer tans, butt cracks full of hayseeds and greasy John Deere caps rolling hay and yelling "Git your foot off the clutch before you burn it up, Lurlene!"
The kids love it. They ride the hay baler with the farmer, catch snakes and jump bales. S.P. thinks it's a good workout for his surf rescue work. And for me? Today I hoisted and stacked, and kept thinking to myself, "am I really going to this much trouble for that big so-and-so who dumped me on my can two days ago?"
Ah, sweet irony...
2 days ago