You don't have to be lonely...

It has taken me awhile to admit this...

W and I broke things off a few months ago. It broke my heart, and even though I know better I felt as though I would never heal. But after a great deal of crying, self pity, and internal debate I did it. I tried online dating a few weeks ago.

FarmersOnly.com is actually a thing. Believe it. Chintzy ads aside, it is pretty fantastic. Imagine if you will that you are fishing, and you know you want to catch a catfish. Do you go hang around fishing holes known for bluegill? No. You go down to the river and throw in your hook where you know there is a passel of channel cat. Dating is similar. I know that a lot of what I am looking for in forever has to do with a rural lifestyle, so why look somewhere else? Laugh, tease, and kid all you like, but for me FarmersOnly was like the Sears and Roebuck catalog of guys (who ALL LOVED and WANTED A RURAL LIFE). Score.

Now, there are some drawbacks to meeting “farmers, ranchers, and good ol’ country folk.” Namely different approached to grammar and in general an intense affection for hunting and beer. I am a self proclaimed grammar Nazi, so that was a bit of a hurdle. Though there aren’t so many guys there that mix up their, they’re, and there as there are in my Facebook newsfeed; so it wasn’t as bad as I had feared. I’m okay with hunting and beer as long as I don’t have to be outside in the early and cold, and as long as it is decent beer. Also, I’m not that picky as to what “decent” is either.

I met a few gentlemen friends on this site, and went on a few dates with mixed results. One guy in particular has stood out in the last two weeks. I have nicknamed him Captain America, and he didn't run screaming away when I called him it to his face. Or when I sang him his theme song. Or when I talked about random dead things on our first date. Bonus. Anyway, there was one other “drawback” that I hadn’t anticipated. Let me give you the back story:

I sent off for my  renewed Firearm Owners Identification Card in December. I didn’t receive it until this week, so I have been unable to previously purchase a firearm to protect myself from varmints or intruders. A few weeks ago my friend’s house was burglarized and I mentioned all of it in a text to the Captain. His response was a resounding encouragement to have a weapon in my house because the results of NOT having one and needing it would be much worse than having one and using it before my card came in. I agreed with him offhandedly and thought nothing of it as I went along my merry (continually texting him images of freakishly large snake sheds and angry bulls).

That is, I thought nothing of it until this week when upon telling him that my card came in; the boy brought a very nice revolver into my house, informed me that it was his snake killing gun and that it wouldn’t matter that I am a horrible shot, and asked me if I would like to keep it until we could go purchase one of my own. **Update: done and done!

To be fair, blithely telling him I was unprotected and then sending him a bunch of stories and pictures of things that could potentially kill me was probably a bad idea. Lookie! I am innocent, and helpless! Gah. What can I say? I am an awkward dater.

But here is the tricky part: we have been on several dates, he has cooked for me and I for him, I have met his horses and he mine, we have worked on his farm equipment a couple of times, and he offered to leave me a gun. Are we friends? Are we seeing each other? Are we dating? Is it exclusive? By accepting possession of this revolver would I somehow perform some part ancient redneck marriage ritual leaving me betrothed, or more? Seriously, it is a NICE gun. The thing could be a bride price, but wouldn’t that go to my dad? It is like Carrie with the shoes in the Sex in the City movie, only a revolver? What is proper etiquette when a guy tries to leave you a gun? Should I clean it? Oil it? Practice shooting so that I can hit the broad side of a barn? Is it like in the Princess Diaries where I am going to have to shoot a target through a flaming hoop to signify something? Because if I have to hit a target at 50 yards I am going to need a lot of practice. 

Also, when he asks me to come over to “help unload his baler” is that code, or did he just buy two balers? Why do you even need two balers? Oh yeah, spare parts, but still. Is it a euphemism? Do good ol' country folk even have euphemisms? Are they like the pick up lines in my last post? What do these things mean!?!? Is it intensely manly and attractive to kill snakes and make boots out of them, or is it creepy? Agh!

Geez, the things I never had to consider when I met a guy at a bar!

Barnyard Tales Chapter 6. Death Wish

Have you ever pictured the great moments in your life as if they were in a book?

“The weathered barn wood slipped past her fingertips. The texture immortalized itself in her memory even as the sensation flew past. It was gone in a moment, but that moment lasted forever. The sensation of hand hewn wood would be with her forever; always drifting right past the ridges and whorls, always right out of reach. Her body turned with the effort of reaching for the wood. One leg struck a board catapulting her sideways; saving her life.

Milliseconds to outsiders felt like slow motion to her. Every sense was alive. The air rushing past her face. The delicate sensation of her foot slamming into oak and sending her shoe flying helter skelter. The hard shove of a stair upon her back and the finality of her concrete bed as she gazed up towards the heavens from whence she had come.

The girl was dazed, confused. She stared towards heaven wondering that she was alive. Golden straw peaked around the edges of the gaping space. Like a gilt picture frame on her demise. Pain was distant then; but the longer she lay the more her muscles cried out in agony, the stronger came her bodies cry. Soon it would be insistent. Soon she would not be able to ignore the call. The girl debated lying there longer. But who would come? Who would hear her pleas and cries?

No one. She was destined to be her own white knight. She rose, shakily at first, but more confident with each passing second. Rough barn wood was again beneath her fingers and hands she levered herself up and slowly climbed the stairs. Her jeans were ripped. Her body torn. Her eyes swam with concussive force.

Slowly she walked towards the house. Slowly she climbed the stairs. Slowly she entered and stoically she took what came.”

Actually, no, she didn’t take that stoically. As soon as I told my mother that I had fallen through the barn loft it went something like this:

Mom: “Are you okay?”

Me: “Yeah, I think so.”

Mom: “Is anything broken? Do you need to go to the hospital?”

Me: “I don’t think so.”

Mom: “Well, that was stupid. You won’t do that again will you? I told you to be careful up there. Now get your ass back outside and finish feeding the horses.”

And then I cried. Not the pretty stately crying, but the "is that girl sobbing or beating a dying moose to death with a sick eagle" kind of crying. Because I make a sucky heroine. But I did go find my shoe and finish feeding the horses. And I did become really sensitive to falling off of things, like straw bales, in barn lofts, when there are access holes cut in the floor that lead directly to the barn basement. Because, I LEARN.

Except, maybe not because I fell through another barn just last year. Damn. I really am a sucky heroine. I'm like, hand me the flashlight and let me take a shower by myself in the haunted house with a lightning storm. Nothing bad will happen this time. Really! As much as I go into run down barns it is apparent. Clearly I have a death wish.

An amusing side note: I also only landed one half of my body on the step and I got a hematoma the size of a softball on one side of my butt. My parents both thought it was hilarious to say, “Only Lauren could fall through a barn and do a half assed job. It would have killed anyone else.” *snicker, snicker*

They’re so sympathetic.

Barnyard Tales Chapter 2. Buttercup the Killer Cow

I should have known as soon as I had to dive away from the skunk butt in the barn that my day had taken a turn for the worse. That I tripped over an old well as I made my dramatic escape from the potential gaseous explosion should have sealed it. But no. In my limping ignorance I thought that a bruised shin and a little bit of blood was as bad as it was going to be.

Ha. Like the fates ever miss a chance to kick someone while they are down. I limped around valiantly finishing my other chores. Buckets of grain were distributed. Hay was going to be moved. My dad waited patiently on the tractor while I dragged the hose from trough to the low bucket being used to water Buttercup, our semi-paralyzed cow.

We had discovered her several days earlier, separated from the herd and wondered why. When we watched her try to escape our attentions it had become apparent. She had limited feeling and mobility in her hind end. Now, before you feel too sorry for her keep in mind that this is a geriatric cow. I’m not sure of the conversion rate of cow to people years, but she is pushing thirty in human years which has to be something like 110 in cow years. We can’t be like normal farmers that ship the gals when they are past their prime. No, we have a cow retirement home. Old age and its delights is something we have grown used to. So, we try to herd this cow towards the gate so she can spend her last days grazing in the safety of the yard. She wants none of it. She falls down and can’t get up, even with a massive injection of steroids. We get the tractor, and the sling. Because we are prepared like that. We maneuver her into the sling and carry her home swinging side to side in a hypnotic blur of black and yellow.

Magically, she regains enough function to stand as soon as she is in the yard and promptly hits me in the leg with her head. It goes numb. The cow hates me. I get it. I would be hateful too. She begins grazing. Mom pets the cow and gets a “love nudge." I feel vindicated.

Two days later the cow is down again. She viscously attacks my arm as I am trying to get her up. It goes numb. She starts licking my mom, even as she is trying to give me a blood clot and kill me. Cow has issues. Mom takes her side. Our animosity grows. Mom says it is because I have named the cow Buttercup.

Day four, the cow is back down. After much prodding I am persuaded to go near the hellion only to narrowly miss a nose thrust to my shin. She has it out for me. The cow hates my life. Maybe I should stop trying to pet her when she is down and semi-paralyzed. She is nuzzling my mother and licking her. Mom glares at me when I say bad things about the cow. Buttercup appears smug.

Day five dawns clear. It will be a good day. Then the skunk bit happens. I am paying too much attention to my shin and not enough to the cow as I drag the hose over to her bucket and begin to wait patiently for it to fill. It is my fault really. I know Buttercup hates me. She senses my weakness. My distraction is blood in the water. Maybe in cow logic if she kills me she can take my life force and live another hundred cow years. I can only guess that her motivation was strong, because she suddenly becomes un paralyzed and lunges, FROM LAYING DOWN MIND YOU, to execute a perfect uppercut with her head to my jaw.

Yes. I took a cow to the face. Be impressed.

I was stunned. There was something wrong. I couldn’t tell what it was. As I stumbled backwards (Yeah, I took a cow to the face and didn’t even fall. Boo yah!) I began doing a mental check of myself. I could move my jaw, but I didn’t want to talk. I could think. Was it clear? I thought so. Did I have a concussion? Had she damaged my neck? My thoughts seemed fuzzy.

Somewhere out of the haze I vaguely noticed dad climbing off of the waiting tractor to come over and kick Buttercup. Somewhere in my shaken brain I got very excited. “He’s standing up for me!” I thought with delight, even as I wondered why I was having a hard time saying the words aloud. Without missing a beat he came over to me and started laughing. “Can you do it again? I want to put it on YouTube.”

Gotta love my dad.

By the way, my jaw was dislocated. That’s why I didn’t want to talk.

Buttercup 4, Lauren 0.

Barnyard Exposure aka Games Farm Kids Play That Others Don't

One special thing about growing up on a farm is that you are exposed to a lot that most people in less rural areas don’t get the pleasure of experiencing.

Take for example the classic barnyard game of, “Find the mummified animal in the barn loft!” Maybe you want a rousing round of "Mommy what are those two horses doing?" Or perhaps you want to play “What did the dog drag into the yard now?”

Honestly, I don’t know how kids understand biological sciences without these great teaching experiences. There is nothing like tripping over the crusty remains of a raccoon or possum to teach you about the important part oxygen and heat play in decomposition. And there is nothing like the combination of spring on a farm and tripping over a mystery skull to learn about anatomy, and for bonus points figure out what animal the bones came from. Deer? Cow? What kind of femur is that anyway?

I. Am. So. Lucky. <- trace amounts of sarcasm mixed with actual gratitude

The really strange thing is that growing up with this you become used to it. It doesn’t seem strange. You walk around the dog knawing on some sort of hide. You learn to not panic seeing a dried snake baled into the straw. I  honestly never thought anything of it until I brought my city born and raised best friend and roommate home with me for the first time about six years ago.

I will never forget the look of horror on her face the first time she stepped out of the car.

J, horrified: “Lauren, what is that?”  The look of revulsion in her eyes startled me. I followed her pointing finger expecting to see a decapitated kitten, or something similarly tragic. Instead I saw nothing out of the ordinary.

Me, blasé: “Oh, that? That’s a spine. Looks like a deer I think. Come on in.”

Honestly, it is a miracle that she ever came back.