Saturday, November 15, 2008

You Do Not Know Everything (aka the hay blog)

Someone explain something to me....preferably a man since they seem to suffer from this disease. Guys, here's a hot news don't know everything. Your way is not always the right way or the smartest way, in fact sometimes it's pretty damned stupid, complicated, dangerous and ill advised. What is it that causes you to think you somehow cornered the market on the right way to do things? Hmmm? Is it a testosterone thing like always wanting to get laid and insisting upon incessantly talking about getting laid and being all proud of yourself every time you do get laid? That must be it....they must be related.

My friend, Lisa, calls it Stupid Girl Syndrome. It's what happens when we're happily completing some task and you, the one with the penis, show up and explain how to do it. Or even more us how. Like, suddenly, having breasts made us incompetent. Has it ever occurred to you that we can function just fine without you around and, at times, that's actually preferable? I can hang pictures, tear off a roof, change a light fixture or outlet, plant and weed a garden, strip copper wire unplug the toilet and any number of other things all by my little self and when I'm done, it's just fine. Everything works fine, everything grows fine, everything turns on and off fine. I don't really need your help. I may humor you because apparently it makes you feel good to help me but for crying out loud....give it rest once in a while.

Remember last year with the hay? Of course no one reading this remembers so let me share that little episode with you. My pasture needed to be hayed. I have no implements with which to do that so we called a guy (cuz as my bro-in-law is known to say, ya got to have a guy) and said, "Hey, guy, wanna come hay our pasture"? Since my particular penis carrier is a city boy, I said tell the guy it needs to be small bales so I can move them around and get them into the barn since the barn loft door is 4' off the ground.

Calls were made. The guy came out and created 47, that's right folks 47, 800 pound bales of hay which measured roughly 5' x 3' each. The guy brought them all up and dumped them in the middle of my driveway while in the process trashing my lawn, newly graveled driveway and drainage culvert. Once he'd gotten them all here, the three men stood around scratching their heads muttering about how they might be able to get them into the barn and stacked. After a suitable period of muttering and scratching they determined that they didn't know how they could do that. Oops, sorry. it falls to am I to get these fucking things into my barn before it rains? And once up there, if we can get them up there, how am I to get them down when I need them? Several hours later with a borrowed forklift that required a 45 minute trip to pick up and a rushed phone call to my father which required his 1 1/2 hour trip out to my place, the hay was finally in the barn.....15 minutes before it rained...and thank goodness for the ox-like strength of good Prussian stock such as my father. Now what part of Get Small Bales wasn't clear to you and the hay guy?

If I need to know how to avoid traffic and find a parking spot at Wrigley Field, you're my guy. If I need to tag or tattoo a cow or hay a field, you won't be my first choice for advice. Here's a helpful tidbit that I'll give you for free: If you're from Chicago (or any other large city) and you've never lived on a farm and you don't know shit about any form of farm life, you might want to ask someone who does. Even if she has breasts.

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