Bless his heart

DH and I were taking pup for training this weekend, and the conversation turned to aprons as it rarely does.

I had found some adorable aprons on sale, but resisted buying one.  DH has a thing for women in aprons. I think it's the whole "Susy Homemaker" thing.  Barefoot, not pregnant, and cooking.  That's me lately. Anyway, DH was all excited because he thought  I meant manly aprons - the kind with bottle openers and barbed wire built in.  I did not.  I meant frilly feminine aprons that made me feel all 50's housewife.

DH sighed.  "At least I still have the apron from my mom."

Oh dear lord.  Have I told you guys about this apron?

From the front, normal apron.  Nice pattern, big pockets.  Then you look at it a little closer.  Something seems.... amiss.  Something seems.... different.  Something seems... bulging.  So you look a little closer.  The apron flaps up in the brisk breeze from the kitchen fan.

And you see them.  Twigs and berries.  Mr. Goodwrench and the Michelin Brothers.  The family jewels.  This apron has a fake set of male genitalia made from pantyhose and pillow stuffing attached.

My husband and brother-in-law love this apron.  Which brings us to the next point:

"Matthew and I are going to be be fighting over that apron. It's the best apron in the world."

I peered at this adorable man I married over the top of my sunglasses.  "Matthew can have it.  If it makes it into our house, Mr. Apron will be singing soprano post surgical removal of his business."

DH glared at me.  "You wouldn't dare.  Q, that apron is a work of art.  Would you go hacking away at a Monet with a scalpel?  No.  It takes real genius to create something like that."

Wait.

Hold the phone.

Did my husband just equate Monet to a pantyhose penis apron?

I made the right decision on procreation.

Billy beer

My brother in law came up to visit DH and I a couple of weekends ago.  I really like that guy.  He's such a solid man.  Hard working, loyal, funny, resistant to change.  Everything my potential sister-in-law will love if he ever gets around to finding her.

M. and I had wasted a good hour of our lives one day watching VH1's "Best of I love the 70's".  It was our first introduction to Jimmy Carter's brother Billy and thus to "Billy Beer".  The slogan was (I may be wrong here), "I think it's the best I've ever tasted.  And I've tasted a lot."

The three of us were on our way to a micro brew party later that day and started talking about favorite beers we've had.  I'm not really a beer fan since I think most of it tastes like water that didn't make it through a properly functioning Brita system, but in Czech M. and I discovered something in common.  We loved Velkopopovický Kozel Cerny.  (It helped immensely that it was half the price of properly filtered water.)  DH prefers lighter beers and thus does not share our infatuation with this heavenly creation. (DH just informed me that he does NOT prefer light beers.  He prefers lagers.  I don't drink enough beer to know why this distinction is important, but the record has been set straight.) 

Talk naturally turned to our trip to Czech and the absurd amounts of alcohol that the locals consumed.

Which brings us back to M. who proclaimed, "People in America think they can drink.  They are wrong. Even if you took Billy Carter over to Prague - he'd never be able to hang.  And that guy looked like he was a serious alcoholic."

Unknown future sister-in-law, I'm glad you appreciate this guy as much as we do.


*Kozel picture is the property of Kozel's brewing company.  I did not take that picture.  I do love that beer though.  Sadly, it is unavailable in the U.S. as far as I know. 

Water conservation

I’m watching the farm this week while the in-laws are on vacation. Really, I’m escaping from the city. There’s only so much pollution I can inhale at a time before I start to yearn for cleaner air and open spaces.

Yesterday I learned how to turn the pivot (or giant water sprinkler for those non-farmers out there) on and off. It’s a messy muddy job, but I liked it. It made me feel like I was accomplishing something, even if I was just starting a motor and moving some pipe around.

This morning, it started raining….hard. We had thunder, lightening, the whole shebang. BIL called to tell me to turn the pivot off. He said I could wait until the rain let up, but I was determined to get it done right away. I had just finished a session on water usage in the U.S. and developing worlds and didn’t want to waste any water we could keep in the ground.

Ran outside in my blue scrub bottoms, purple tank top, and green irrigation boots. Ready for a fashion show, I was not. I quickly realized that this was not the most protective attire for rain when everything was drenched in about twenty seconds. Decided to take the four-wheeler for two reasons. One, I was soaked and didn't think it was a good idea to get the truck wet. Two, I was pretty sure I would get the truck stuck and did not look forward to explaining to my FIL why the tires were buried in two feet of mud.

I was speeding down the gravel road toward the path I thought I remembered going through the beans and corn to one of the pivot parts when I realized I couldn't see. The rain was stinging my face and arms, the mud was splattering my eyes and hair, and thunder was cracking overhead. I wiped my face with my cleanest dirty arm and took a left.

Turned off the engine for the pivot and headed to the water pump. Corn is sharp. Dripping wet knife sharp corn attacking my arms like tiny razorblades was a job hazard I had never considered. I made it to the pump, hopped off the four wheeler, and lost my irrigation boot in the calf deep mud puddle. It was still pouring rain, my other boot was half full of water, my hair was dripping mud and rain, and the pump was shooting icy water at my knees. I hopped on one foot and tried to convince the boot it really wanted to be on my foot.

I pulled....and pulled....and pulled. Nothing. I gave one last huge yank, and the boot came loose with a disgusting schlepping sound. I would have celebrated, but I was busy summersaulting backwards into the other deeper mud puddle. I landed flat on my back, boot in hand. The mud wasted no time in letting me know that it wanted me to stay by oozing over my stomach and legs.

I struggled out of the mire still holding my boot, stood in front of the icy spray to rinse off a bit, flipped the pump switch, and clambered back onto the four wheeler. I made it back to the house and came in through the basement so I would track mud on the least amount of floor necessary. Pup came bounding down the stairs (she escaped her kennel, the brat), took one look at me, and backed up the stairs barking and growling. I caught a glimpse of myself as I was getting in the shower. (Clothed. I had to get some of the mud off somehow.)

I was a total combo.

Peeping Tommy

I was in The Mall today with my brother-in-law acting as a personal shopper. I love shopping for other people. It's like playing dress up with live dolls. Maybe I should toss away this whole doctor thing and be a professional shopper.

I had to utilize the facilities thanks to an extra large water I drank at lunch. I left BIL at the Holiday gas station store in the mall and took myself off to the loo. I was minding my own business when a head popped under the stall door and a small hand waved at me.

"Hello," piped a tiny voice.

This demands a question. How old is too old to bring your child of the opposite gender into the restroom with you? I'm going to take a stand and say that eight or nine is too old. If the kid knows about the difference in body parts and can wipe his or her own tushy, he or she can pee alone. Time the kid if need be, guard both exits with flaming swords, give explicit instructions about strangers, but for goodness' sake don't let them run around the opposite gender restroom sticking their head under stalls while you are taking care of your own business. It is uncalled for and disconcerting for the other patrons.

It is so disconcerting that they might grab sunscreen out of their purse and spray it at the head poking under the door. The kid might scream and cry. The patron might refuse to apologize since he or she felt the head should have stayed on its own side of the door and that sunscreen was a defensive move. The parent might become upset and yell. The situation could deteriorate and end with an argument that on one side was loud with an excellent lexicon and on the other had poor logic and a pitiful excuse for a vocabulary. This could result in disdain for the inept arguer who would storm out of the restroom child in tow muttering about rude Southerners.

It could happen.