My body feels like it was run over by a train. Twice. For the last month, I've partied like I don't have a full-time job, bedtime, an empty bank account, integrity or reason to live. So when Rebecca asked me to drive to her parents’ farm in the middle of nowhere Wisconsin this weekend, I figured, ok, I could use a slower pace.
Rather than lure me in with the promise of townie bars and a fireman ball (which we did wind up going to), she was hell-bent on taking us to the local apple orchard. This was our gchat about it:
Me: Pat says he’s in but “will kick his own ass before he goes apple picking”
Her: You don’t pick the apples, loser!
Me: What, you just look at the apples?
Her: Yeah, that’s what you do in the country.
Me: No thanks, loser!
Her: We can pet baby goats
Her: We're taking care of a runt baby pygmy goat
Me: That’s got to be the world’s smallest possible goat
Me: ok, I'll come but know that I am pretty much expecting the plot of "son in law" to unfold
To me, this defines a great part of our friendship. Her trying to get me to do seemingly boring things, me declining, her adding some element of novelty, me agreeing. Whenever I try to do this with her, things go horribly wrong. Like the time I convinced her to go ice skating on a frozen lake despite the fact that she was terrified. I showed up at her house, armed with 5 friends all wearing Bulls starter jackets from my childhood and made everyone chant "6 peat! 6 peat!" until she put one on and climbed in the car. After 5 minutes, I got bored and demanded we play crack the whip, which immediately resulted in hysterical sobbing, a blood soaked pullover, and a broken front tooth that she has to go to the dentist every six months to get re-whitened because the nerves are dead. This has happened over the years in some form or another, over and over and over.
But I digress. The farm turned out to be really fun. Mostly because her dad let me drive his steamroller down a dirt path. Yes, his steamroller.
Expect more blogging in the next few days.
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