Why do people think that living in the country is synonymous with a quiet, simple life?

Last night was not quiet or simple.

It started out well.  I was able to have pork bbq in the slow cooker for a headstart on supper.  The stars aligned and I thought out a meal, had the items purchased, remembered to put the roast in the slow cooker and was able dash home on my lunch hour to add the bbq, etc.  I managed to feed 6 of us (2 extras) a decent dinner and have some leftovers.  From there, well, it sorta went downhill.  My attempts at being organized are always short-lived.

After finishing dishes (still no dishwasher) and cleaning the kitchen, it was time to head to the barn.  The 4-H Fair is in a week.  I rinsed, scrubbed, poofed, walked and worked the show stick on Abigail, the show heifer.  Pig farmer (husband) and son walked the show pigs and did those chores.  I finished the other chores: donkey-cats-dogs.  I was starting to look forward to relaxing with a book.  However, first I needed to cut up that 1/2 watermelon my Mom dropped off at our house.

Pig farmer needed to hook up the trailer for taking the steer to the sale barn today.  The hitch to hook up the trailer wasn’t right.   As I carried the watermelon rind outside to pitch over the fence, pig farmer called to me to look at it.  ??  Uhm, it’s bad when I get called in for mechanical know-how.  I fiddled and found a wrench or channel locks or crescent wrency….something like that?  Finally, we ask the 20-year old.  Explanation for why the hitch didn’t look right?  It wasn’t our hitch.  Our hitch was traded out for his cousin’s hitch, temporarily, to make transporting the rack wagons for the summer party stage possible.  I do remember a conversation that involved hitches and balls and me.  And I didn’t understand my role.  So, I sorta let it float in one ear and out the other ear.  And apparently I dropped the ball (and hitch) and didn’t do what I didn’t understand.  My bad.  Which caused the pig farmer to be frustrated.  And the 20-year old to be frustrated.  And me to be frustrated.  All at me.  And me at them.  Yuck.  I hate dropping the ball (and hitch).  20-year old son took responsibility for the situation (yay!) and fixed it up.  It was after 10 p.m. and time for bed.

“YELP!  YIPE!  YELP!” 

What the ???  I flew to the sash to see what was the matter.

Pig farmer muffles from under the covers, “That was a dog.”  Uhm, yes … I gathered that much.

I flew outside, nightgown flapping (I wish I could say it was “swirling about me” or “gracefully floating” but I’m pretty sure I was just flying about like a witch without her broomstick.) and barefooted.  Apparently, Sadie the dog did not think the Silver Bullet was aimed for her.  I call the 20-yr old’s car the Silver Bullet for a reason.  It attracts deer like flies to poo.  Or chocolate to my hips.  We examined the dog.  No whining or whimpering.  We walked her around.  No limping.  Finally, after we examined and walked her some more, she finally held one paw up…like maybe it hurt.

Now, I realized I had walked across the rock driveway in my bare feet.  I had to navigate back to the house, but this time I felt every jagged rock on my instep.

I flopped back into bed for fitful sleep.  I was, possibly, a little keyed up.  Pig farmer said he was ready for the drama to stop.  I suggested he was intended to live alone.  He said, “But that would be lonely.”  Sigh.  Well, yes.  But maybe drama-free.   

4:30 a.m. – pig farmer’s alarm irritatingly belches to life.  What the ???  Oh, pig farmer was going to get up early until all the “drama,” broke loose last night.  However, he forgot to change the time on the alarm to the later setting (all of 5:20 a.m.).

5:20 – my radio alarm quietly comes on.  I curse.  It is what it is.  Roll with it.  Coffee awaits.

Grab coffee, shoot out the door, load the steer, halter and feed the heifer, feed Happy the donkey, chug coffee, water flowers, chug some more coffee, shower, spackle on makeup, attempt hair-taming (the heifer’s looks better than mine), find clean dress clothes to wear, tidy house for cleaning lady that I am blessed to have twice a month, chug more coffee, scoop kitty litter, lose appetite, chug more coffee, regain appetite, make toast, talk with 20-yr old son who is now up for his work, refill fridge with water bottles (take-one-out/put-one-in is a concept too challenging for my other-wise intelligent household to grasp) and look at clock – 7:00 a.m.  Time to wrap things up and leave for “work.”

At work, acknowledge and accept that nagging headache is no longer nagging.  It is flat-out throwing a tantrum.

It is what it is.  Chug ibuprofen.