Farm Fresh Blog

The Christmas Party

Or . . .

In Which Pooh Bear Attempts To Be A Girl

Between my work schedule and and farm schedule, getting "Girl Time" is rare. Most of my girlfriends are also trying to juggle full-time jobs and farms, so we spend more time on the phone than face to face. But each December, we have a Christmas party where we all drop what we're doing, take time off of work, leave the husbands at home, toss some feed at the horses and the kids, put on a clean shirt and get together for "girl time."

Girl Time means you can shamelessly talk about horses, leopard-print underwear, and bling-bling and know you are with like-minded women.  In fact, since one of our members was lifeflighted off the beach after a bad fall from a horse and it was discovered that she was wearing leopard-print bra and panties, we have adopted leopard-prints as well as bright purple as our group colors.  (You don't get more girly-girly than THAT!) We are the "Red Hat Society" on horseback - a posse of purple and leopard!

So yesterday I took off work for my total immersion in "Girl Time."  The Girls always lay out one helluva spread. You won't go hungry at a Girl Party. The problem is that not only do I not cook worth a darn, I worked the night before so there was no guarantee that I'd even have time to cook before the party. Since the bakery in my little town makes awesome cake balls, I planned to swing by the bakery on my way to the party. (The best laid plans of mice and men . . .)

And thus began the adventures of the typical middle-aged premenapausal airhead . . .

Admire cute black holiday horse sweatshirt in mirror. Find matching earrings.  "Damn girl!  You look good!" Pack up purse to leave.  Crap! Go back in house to get White Elephant gift. Crap! Wrap White Elephant gift. Start out door again.  CRAP!  Forgot to unload shavings from back of truck.  Since a cold front is supposed to blow in, decide to unload shavings and spread in sheep stalls.  Manage to accomplish this without getting too dirty.  Amazing.  Decide it is hot.  Very hot.  Too hot for cute black holiday horse sweatshirt.  Damn. Go back in house.  Stare at closet.  Volumes of clothes. Nothing to wear.  Decide on black t-shirt that matches earrings.  Tug on shirt.  It is wrinkled.  Damn.  Decide that at least shirt is clean. With visions of leopard-printed bling-bling dancing in my head, I grab purse and climb into Monsta truck.

Pull into bakery.  It is closed.  Do WHAT??!!!  Uh oh!  Refuse to let Holiday Spirit be dampened. Head to Kroger's. Find chocolate-covered strawberries. (mmmmm . . . BETTER than cake balls!)  Buy outrageously expensive strawberries.  Decide that since it is now 1:45 PM and I have not eaten, I must buy something to eat NOW so I don't eat everything including the paper plate at the party.  (learned that little trick from Scarlett O'Hara)  Buy Spicy California rolls and some potato chips.  I never get to eat California Rolls at home because Other Half flips out and squeals "SUSHI!  How can you eat RAW fish!  GROOOSSS!"

So I get a package of Spicy California Rolls and feel all "urbane" at the idea of eating this yuppy food even though I am fully aware that a piece of fake crab and a hunk of avocado wrapped in a slab of rice is definitely NOT sushi. Decide that Other Half needs a bag of Peanut M&Ms. Rush through check-out line. Climb into Monsta truck. Carefully unpack Spicy California Rolls and place on center console. Tear open package of soy sauce. Pour onto rolls. Pop roll in mouth.  Savor sensation.  Have a Happy Fake Yuppy moment.  Follow roll with a potato chip.  Mmmm. . . perfect balance of salty.  Mmmm . . .

Notice time.  Damn!  Running late.  Plug address into Tom-Tom.  I have been here 4 times already and I STILL have to use the damned GPS.  Oh well, at least the address should still be in there. It's not.  Three tries later and still cannot find it. Damn!  Damn!  Damn!  Give in and call hostess.  AHHHH . . . wrong city.  (Have major Gray Hair Senior Moment) She understands.  She's been there too.

Find directions in Tom Tom.  Pop another roll in mouth and cruise through parking lot. Package of Spicy California Rolls falls into floorboard.  Lots of cussing. Put truck in park and look in floorboard.  Rice and fake crab everywhere.  More cussing.  Begin to pick up hunks of what use to be cute little wheels of rice, avocado, and fake crab and chunk them back into package.  They are covered in Border Collie hair.  Still very hungry.  Debate the idea of picking off the hair and eating them anyway.  Mentally calculate how much microscopic sheep poop and cow patties are on floorboard.  Dismiss the idea.  Stomach growls.  Decide that if the Donner Party could eat their companions, perhaps a few Border Collie hairs wouldn't be a problem.  Begin pulling off dog hair.  Find a Belgian Tervuren hair.  These are quite distinctive crinkly multi-colored hairs. My Belgian Tervuren died in June.  Decide this is Kona's "Hi Mom!" from the grave.  Smile and throw hair back in floorboard. (I have always said that I could never commit murder because anyone who suspected me would have the forensic team look for Belgian Tervuren hairs at the murder scene since I always manage to carry them everywhere I go.)  That dog never even rode in Monsta Truck and yet, here are his hairs in the floorboard.

So now my fingers are coated with sticky rice and spicy sauce. There is orange spicy sauce dribbled down the side of the center console and the floorboard.  Bits of rice and orange sauce are on my wrinkled black shirt, and the thighs of my blue jeans.  Yep . . . I'm ready to go to a Party!

Roll out of parking lot and drive down highway, listening to Tom-Tom and picking dog hairs off my food.  Decide that if I get stopped as a Drunk Driver for weaving on the highway then I will show Highway Patrol Officer my floorboard.  He will feel sorry that Other Half is stuck with such a DingBat and not give me a ticket.   OR . . . he will be so appalled at the idea that the abovementioned DingBat would actually pick doghairs off the food and eat it, that he will be afraid to loan me his pen to sign the ticket. (especially since my fingers are still coated in orange spicy sauce that is now drying and sticky.)

Decide that the rest of the rolls are too mangled, hairy, and disgusting for even the Donner Party to eat. Still hungry.  Work on potato chips.  Look longingly at Other Half's M&Ms.  Decide that since he never KNEW I BOUGHT the M&Ms, he wouldn't necessarily know that I'd opened and ate some of his M&Ms. Calculate length of arms and distance to reach M&M bag.  Since numbers don't add up, decide against M&Ms.

Am making good time down the highway until a little blue Honda Civic looms into view.  Almost run over it like a skateboard.  It is going 40 MPH in a 60 MPH zone. Roadway is now down to two-lane highway.  Cannot pass little Pokey Car.  Mentally picture that Little Pokey Driver is a Half-Blind Elderly Woman.  Envision driver as Teenager-On-Cell-Phone. Since that brings up "less than Christian" thoughts, opt to envision her as Little Old Lady instead. Do not wish to intimidate Half-Blind-Elderly-Woman by being so close she can read F.O.R.D. in her rear view mirror. Slow way down. Speed limit changes from 60 MPH to 50 MPH.  Half-Blind-Elderly-Woman changes from 40 MPH to 30 MPH. Still cannot pass her. Follow her down roadway for an agonizingly long time.  Note long line of cars in my rear-view mirror.  Note that since they cannot see around my Big Ass Monsta Truck, they are probably blaming me for the slow down. 

Little Old Lady FINALLY pulls into the grocery store, sparking the start of the Indianapolis 500, but by now the speed limit is 35 MPH.  Decide that despite the fact that I am now thirty minutes late for my Girly Party, a city cop would not be impressed if I tried to explain to him that I was speeding through his town because I had been stuck behind a Little Old Lady for the last seven miles and felt I was entitled to "split the difference" as far as the speed limit was concerned. (Cops can be such downers where that's concerned.)

Finally emerge into something resembling a decent speed limit when Tom-Tom announces that it's time to turn right.  Really?  I have been to this house numerous times and this does not look remotely familiar.  Consider arguing with the computer but look at the time and decide to follow directions instead.  A few minutes later we emerge into familiar territory.  I'm sure I heard a smirk in Tom's voice.

Roll up to a house with horses in the back yard and a front yard full of farm trucks. (40 of my favorite people!) I am now late, wearing a wrinkled shirt covered in spicy orange sauce and potato chip crumbs. Bits of rice are clinging to my blue jeans, and I have rice and fake crab in the tread of my cowgirl boots - "Let the Party Begin!"