On days like today when the sun shines and its the perfect weather outside I dread being at work. I dread sitting behind this little desk tip tap typing on my computer screen. Its days like today that I wonder if I shouldn't have been a farmer...or farmer's wife...
That was an option once, you know. A few years back...I was dating Mr. Chucklehead...it was the drama of the century as he is not of the same religious faith as the majority of my family. There was suddenly a flutter and a flurry of eligible young men that were called to my attention.
One in particular will always remain fresh in my mind. His name is Buster. He is the proud father of eight children. He had a wife who passed away from cancer a few years earlier.
Buster was the choice of my grandfather. He was from a small town, a hard working farmer, of the "right" religion and best of all...because of my elderly age of 30 was the perfect mate because he already had children.
In all the years of my life there are few things my mother and I agree on. Me being all wrong for Buster is one that I thank God for often.
Of course I could see right away that Buster was all wrong for me. A farmer? Not my style. I'm a professional business woman! Not only that, but he was nearly 10 years older than I was and how in the world would we be able to date - we lived hundreds of miles from each other?
All that was a quick fix according to grandpa...I needed a man like Buster...I could just move in with grandpa and why date? Buster needs a wife and I need a husband...?! (I swear I'm not making this up.)
Leave it to my mother to put it in a way that grandpa could understand, "Oh no dad! She can't marry Buster. Those kids would starve...have you ever tasted her cooking?"
Well - I suppose that if the one reason I can't marry Buster is because of my cooking then I shall be glad that I have no idea how to use a crock pot, can burn rice without even trying and wouldn't know a souffle from a succotash.
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