As a photographer, particularly when one does weddings as part of that, you inevitably become an on-the-drive-home"wedding planner". Its an occupational hazard I guess. Having done this for a zillion years, I'm rather over it, but every young employee I've ever had spends our entire drive home planning his/her own wedding based on what they just saw.
My boyfriend is in real estate and I'm learning quick that my occupational hazard has a parallel in that field. I guess looking at homes and land all day long tends to get you going on what you want. And, like ice sculptures and chapel-length veils, this seems to change quite frequently. A month ago, for example, he only wanted two rooms in a 3000 sq. ft home - one being the bedroom and the other being a kitchen that rivals Kitchen Stadium (he's also a chef). Yesterday, however, he was all Home On the Range.
We were driving all over Northern California running errands which was giving us lots of car time to chat, and apparently for him to reflect on the plan du' jour.
"I've decided I need a lot of space," He says to me. Quite the opening line after several minutes of contemplative silence.
"Now? Listen, if you need space, fine. I can live with that. But if you need space now, and you think I am walking home from here, you have another think coming, Sparkie."
"No! Not that kind of space. I mean land. I need lots of land. 20 acres. With a nice little ranchette, that kind of thing." So we spend the next bit of time eye-balling open land and discussing the value of trees vs sun. This leads to the discussion of the vegetable garden, which I firmly believe should not be under a half acre in size. This then side tracks us onto the cooking thing for awhile, and then we return to the "practicalities" of the "new plan".
"That's too big, too much work," He announces, sizing me up in terms of my potential rototiller-operational-skills.
"I can do it. My grandfather was a farmer. I love to garden." All true. He seems to be somewhat OK with this idea and then launches into how the proper equipment would be needed. Apparently the idea of running amok with a little tractor with a rototiller attachment is outweighing any concerns he may have about my inability to turn a single shovel of dirt, nevermind an entire half acre of dirt.
Then he decides he needs a goat. OK, I see we are switching gears again. I can play Old McDonald with the best of them.
"Goats are good. I want a cow."
"Cows would be OK. I wouldn't mind someone running some cattle on the back acreage." (Please insert the twang of an old guitar and the clunk of a canteen here)
"No, honey. Not cattle. A cow. Cow singular. You know, the one named Bessie that meets you in the front yard every morning and says 'hello'." Honestly. Cattle, indeed, and running cattle at that. Men.
He looks at me incredulously, "What in the world do you want a cow for?"
"Milk!" I give him my best 'duh' look, but the truth be known, I didn't dare say I really wanted it for a pet.
He ponders this for a minute or two, while I entertain visions of carrying my pail out into the dewy morning grass, strewn with wild flowers to milk Bessie.
"Well, the meat would be good..." He says by way of concession.
The dew dries up, the wild flowers wilt, I drop my pail and look at him in horror. "MEAT???! You aren't going to kill Bessie! Bessie is a pet, a family member!..."
"Well, what else are we going to do with her offspring? You didn't want a herd of cattle running, remember?"
"What offspring? Since when is Bessie pregnant? Bulls are mean."
"Since Bessie gives milk. Bessie has to be pregnant or nursing to give milk, Sharon. Just like with you." He's quite amused at the incredulous look on my face.
This had never occurred to me. Go figure. Who knew it worked the same way with cows? I was quite concerned about the bull aspect, but he then assured me that you can rent a bull. Rent-a-Bull. Now there's a business to be in!
Having resolved the issue of the cow and the goat, I moved on to chickens. I love chickens. Especially the one's that look like they are wearing bloomers. However, I was soon to learn that to some people the chicken is akin to the Spawn of Satan.
"Absolutely not. Chickens are messy and smelly and a royal pain in the ass." This led to a heated debate where I desperately pleaded the Case of the Chicken to no avail. Apparently my Animal Wish List was over with the cow. He promised to buy me eggs, but I wasn't done. Then a horrible thing happened - I was banished from the kingdom.
"If you want chickens, you can have chickens on your own piece of property." He didn't say it, but I could see the next line in his evil eyes: and take your little cow with you! Banished! Thrown off the farm in my little checkered pinafore. Fine. Be that way. I pouted for some time, seriously concerned about how I was going to manage to rent-a-bull on my own and then a vision hit me and I started giggling. If my dog and my cat are any indication, this wouldn't work out for him very well. Both of my animals are by my side constantly. They follow me everywhere I go, room to room even. I seriously doubt Bessie and the girls would be any different and I suddenly had this vision of going over to his house to visit being followed by a cow and 6 chickens. The picture of him opening the front door to that was hilarious.
"No chickens." Fine. We moved out of playing Old McDonald then and moved on to lunch where he ordered chicken!
It wasn't until the next day that the reality of my own existence hit me. I've pitched a huge campaign for a milk cow and I'm lactose intolerant! I haven't been able to drink milk for over 20 years! OH NO! What a moron I am! I was horrified - I spent all my feminine whiles working on some stupid cow that makes milk I can't drink and meat I eat maybe three times a year! A whole cow would provide me with meat for the rest of my life, for chrissakes. Who am I kidding? I don't know how to milk a stupid cow! And besides, if memory serves, that procedure needs to happen at day break. Day break?! I don't DO day break. I do noon! What good is a cow?
I dial the phone. "Honey, I've made a tremendous error in judgement." I explain this horrific dilemma to him.
"Yeah, but I eat lots of meat." I point out that this isn't fair. He then remembers something about methane gasses that come off of cows and it being bad for you. I didn't even ask. Sounded suspiciously like Blow Dryer Cancer to me, but I could see Bessie packing her bags. I made one more attempt at Save the Chicken.
"Do you promise, promise, to clean up after them?" I promised. "Okay, then. But only two."
Good deal. I was no longer banished and I had my chickens. So when Ed McMahon shows up with our million dollar sweepstakes check, we are all set to go.
My boyfriend is in real estate and I'm learning quick that my occupational hazard has a parallel in that field. I guess looking at homes and land all day long tends to get you going on what you want. And, like ice sculptures and chapel-length veils, this seems to change quite frequently. A month ago, for example, he only wanted two rooms in a 3000 sq. ft home - one being the bedroom and the other being a kitchen that rivals Kitchen Stadium (he's also a chef). Yesterday, however, he was all Home On the Range.
We were driving all over Northern California running errands which was giving us lots of car time to chat, and apparently for him to reflect on the plan du' jour.
"I've decided I need a lot of space," He says to me. Quite the opening line after several minutes of contemplative silence.
"Now? Listen, if you need space, fine. I can live with that. But if you need space now, and you think I am walking home from here, you have another think coming, Sparkie."
"No! Not that kind of space. I mean land. I need lots of land. 20 acres. With a nice little ranchette, that kind of thing." So we spend the next bit of time eye-balling open land and discussing the value of trees vs sun. This leads to the discussion of the vegetable garden, which I firmly believe should not be under a half acre in size. This then side tracks us onto the cooking thing for awhile, and then we return to the "practicalities" of the "new plan".
"That's too big, too much work," He announces, sizing me up in terms of my potential rototiller-operational-skills.
"I can do it. My grandfather was a farmer. I love to garden." All true. He seems to be somewhat OK with this idea and then launches into how the proper equipment would be needed. Apparently the idea of running amok with a little tractor with a rototiller attachment is outweighing any concerns he may have about my inability to turn a single shovel of dirt, nevermind an entire half acre of dirt.
Then he decides he needs a goat. OK, I see we are switching gears again. I can play Old McDonald with the best of them.
"Goats are good. I want a cow."
"Cows would be OK. I wouldn't mind someone running some cattle on the back acreage." (Please insert the twang of an old guitar and the clunk of a canteen here)
"No, honey. Not cattle. A cow. Cow singular. You know, the one named Bessie that meets you in the front yard every morning and says 'hello'." Honestly. Cattle, indeed, and running cattle at that. Men.
He looks at me incredulously, "What in the world do you want a cow for?"
"Milk!" I give him my best 'duh' look, but the truth be known, I didn't dare say I really wanted it for a pet.
He ponders this for a minute or two, while I entertain visions of carrying my pail out into the dewy morning grass, strewn with wild flowers to milk Bessie.
"Well, the meat would be good..." He says by way of concession.
The dew dries up, the wild flowers wilt, I drop my pail and look at him in horror. "MEAT???! You aren't going to kill Bessie! Bessie is a pet, a family member!..."
"Well, what else are we going to do with her offspring? You didn't want a herd of cattle running, remember?"
"What offspring? Since when is Bessie pregnant? Bulls are mean."
"Since Bessie gives milk. Bessie has to be pregnant or nursing to give milk, Sharon. Just like with you." He's quite amused at the incredulous look on my face.
This had never occurred to me. Go figure. Who knew it worked the same way with cows? I was quite concerned about the bull aspect, but he then assured me that you can rent a bull. Rent-a-Bull. Now there's a business to be in!
Having resolved the issue of the cow and the goat, I moved on to chickens. I love chickens. Especially the one's that look like they are wearing bloomers. However, I was soon to learn that to some people the chicken is akin to the Spawn of Satan.
"Absolutely not. Chickens are messy and smelly and a royal pain in the ass." This led to a heated debate where I desperately pleaded the Case of the Chicken to no avail. Apparently my Animal Wish List was over with the cow. He promised to buy me eggs, but I wasn't done. Then a horrible thing happened - I was banished from the kingdom.
"If you want chickens, you can have chickens on your own piece of property." He didn't say it, but I could see the next line in his evil eyes: and take your little cow with you! Banished! Thrown off the farm in my little checkered pinafore. Fine. Be that way. I pouted for some time, seriously concerned about how I was going to manage to rent-a-bull on my own and then a vision hit me and I started giggling. If my dog and my cat are any indication, this wouldn't work out for him very well. Both of my animals are by my side constantly. They follow me everywhere I go, room to room even. I seriously doubt Bessie and the girls would be any different and I suddenly had this vision of going over to his house to visit being followed by a cow and 6 chickens. The picture of him opening the front door to that was hilarious.
"No chickens." Fine. We moved out of playing Old McDonald then and moved on to lunch where he ordered chicken!
It wasn't until the next day that the reality of my own existence hit me. I've pitched a huge campaign for a milk cow and I'm lactose intolerant! I haven't been able to drink milk for over 20 years! OH NO! What a moron I am! I was horrified - I spent all my feminine whiles working on some stupid cow that makes milk I can't drink and meat I eat maybe three times a year! A whole cow would provide me with meat for the rest of my life, for chrissakes. Who am I kidding? I don't know how to milk a stupid cow! And besides, if memory serves, that procedure needs to happen at day break. Day break?! I don't DO day break. I do noon! What good is a cow?
I dial the phone. "Honey, I've made a tremendous error in judgement." I explain this horrific dilemma to him.
"Yeah, but I eat lots of meat." I point out that this isn't fair. He then remembers something about methane gasses that come off of cows and it being bad for you. I didn't even ask. Sounded suspiciously like Blow Dryer Cancer to me, but I could see Bessie packing her bags. I made one more attempt at Save the Chicken.
"Do you promise, promise, to clean up after them?" I promised. "Okay, then. But only two."
Good deal. I was no longer banished and I had my chickens. So when Ed McMahon shows up with our million dollar sweepstakes check, we are all set to go.
2 comments:
Los Lobos was way better than that story. Ha Ha see you on Sunday.
XXOOXX Jason
Ha ha ha, funny man. Ray and Mel said I could have a chicken at their house and he could hang out with their chickens, so Tommy might be off the proverbial Poultry Hook.
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