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dragonlady7via http://ift.tt/2aHBznZ:
middle-little sister took this photo of me a couple of hours ago. after dinner, while Farm Baby was in the bath with the help of her parents, the two of us (earlier in the day Farm Baby had collectively addressed us as “Aunts!” several times, and in our grating Northeastern accent, it’s pronounced the same as the insect; we’ve all agreed this is hideous but pronouncing it any other way would be intolerably pretentious since that’s not how our accent works, so we must resign ourselves to being Ants) drove my car out to the yurt and set up my giant heavy EZ-Up that I retrieved from my parents’ garage earlier in the week.
Then it was too much trouble to turn the car around, so instead we took a joyride around the whole loop, and I spotted the pasture where the egg chickens are currently pastured, so we pulled up and hollered at them. We still had the remains of the gin and tonics we’d had after dinner, and I was taking advantage of the pause to drain my glass so it wouldn’t spill on the upcoming bumpy section of road– path, really, this was far back on the farm property. So of course my dear sister took a photo and posted it to Facebook, of me yelling at chickens behind the wheel with a pint glass. Classy!
On her phone it was a video clip, and I was yelling at the closest rooster, who was one of several nondescript black roosters they have. The biggest alpha rooster of the flock is a glorious huge golden monster named Fabio, and he usually comes over to check out any interlopers first thing, but he didn’t. So I was yelling, “WHERE FABIO AT” and it sounded way worse in the recording than I had thought. My accent is hideous and my voice unmelodic. Anyway.
(I really do have a terrible accent. I just mostly don’t notice it. I think I just generically sound like the people on TV and in movies but if you really listen, I have a sneaking suspicion I don’t.)
But, there’s your moment of farm Zen– two white Yankee aunties in their thirties, full of gin, joyriding through a farm, hollering at organic-fed chickens in the glorious golden sunset.
I wasn’t even drunk, we had three ounces of hard liquor in five hours.
middle-little sister took this photo of me a couple of hours ago. after dinner, while Farm Baby was in the bath with the help of her parents, the two of us (earlier in the day Farm Baby had collectively addressed us as “Aunts!” several times, and in our grating Northeastern accent, it’s pronounced the same as the insect; we’ve all agreed this is hideous but pronouncing it any other way would be intolerably pretentious since that’s not how our accent works, so we must resign ourselves to being Ants) drove my car out to the yurt and set up my giant heavy EZ-Up that I retrieved from my parents’ garage earlier in the week.
Then it was too much trouble to turn the car around, so instead we took a joyride around the whole loop, and I spotted the pasture where the egg chickens are currently pastured, so we pulled up and hollered at them. We still had the remains of the gin and tonics we’d had after dinner, and I was taking advantage of the pause to drain my glass so it wouldn’t spill on the upcoming bumpy section of road– path, really, this was far back on the farm property. So of course my dear sister took a photo and posted it to Facebook, of me yelling at chickens behind the wheel with a pint glass. Classy!
On her phone it was a video clip, and I was yelling at the closest rooster, who was one of several nondescript black roosters they have. The biggest alpha rooster of the flock is a glorious huge golden monster named Fabio, and he usually comes over to check out any interlopers first thing, but he didn’t. So I was yelling, “WHERE FABIO AT” and it sounded way worse in the recording than I had thought. My accent is hideous and my voice unmelodic. Anyway.
(I really do have a terrible accent. I just mostly don’t notice it. I think I just generically sound like the people on TV and in movies but if you really listen, I have a sneaking suspicion I don’t.)
But, there’s your moment of farm Zen– two white Yankee aunties in their thirties, full of gin, joyriding through a farm, hollering at organic-fed chickens in the glorious golden sunset.
I wasn’t even drunk, we had three ounces of hard liquor in five hours.
