I don’t always get a date night, but when I do, it may involve the local sheriffs department and lawn fertilization.
Now that I’ve got your full attention, settle in with your cup of coffee and saddle up for the story, friend.
It was a night like most others. Farmer came in for supper, and went back out to finish a few things. I checked homework, signed notebooks, wrangled
cats kids, forgot to feed the dog, and got the mini farmers into bed at a decent hour. After a shower, this mama fell into bed and was sporting all sorts of snores and bedhead by the time Farmer rolled back into home.
Isn’t this how your evening dates start?
I’m fairly certain I cracked an eyelid when Farmer came to bed and mumbled something along the lines of “how was your day,” but at the same time, my memory of what I say and do while sleeping is … shifty at best. Farmer will tell you that he’s had whole conversations with fast-asleep me, and they offer a wide range in hilarity and common sense. But that’s another story for another time.
When the house phone jangled at quarter-past-something (yes, we still have a land line, don’t get distracted), I heard Farmer talk coherently to someone about something. In my book, any time you can talk coherently when it’s dark outside is a feat, and should be duly noted on your resume. But I digress. I heard the slllloooop-slllloooop of slim fit Wrangler jeans being pulled up long legs, and then I’m pretty certain that my brain turned off again before the door even shut.
The next thing I knew, I was brought to consciousness (again) with Farmer in my line of sight staring out the window of our bedroom, highlighted by blue and white lights, loudly mumbling something about the sheriff and cows.
I managed a froggy “do you need help” as he was headed for the door, and his sigh told me everything I needed to know. I rolled out of bed and sleepily assessed my attire in the best way I could, deciding that this hot date night should involve a baggy sweatshirt, pajama pants, hair down, and unbrushed teeth.
I tried to make my way quietly down the steps, effectively missing the bottom step and my quest for quiet as the hardwood and slate met my uncoordinated legs.
Meanwhile, if you’re keeping tabs, I’m running at least 5 minutes behind Farmer. I blame it on the stereotype that the man is always waiting on the woman to get jazzed up. But in reality, the quest to find my boots half-asleep took most of that time. I MEAN, you can’t just wake a girl up with blue lights and ask her to dance.
I followed the flashlight beams across the yard to connect myself with my colleagues for this late-night date debacle, passing the deputy, who threw out a hearty “Hello, how are you!” like it was the greeting time at church. (I should tell the sheriff’s department that their overnight deputies get bonus points for manners and professionalism, even when confronted by scary-looking women in PJ’s and boots with all sorts of bedhead.)
After we chased the errant cattle back through the errant gate, I hung behind as Farmer thanked the deputy for his help and climbed into the farm truck (I didn’t want to scare that poor, polite deputy a second time with my date apparel). Farmer and I took a loop around the pastures and the driveway in the farm truck, pushing a few mamas back into their rightful borders and confirming gate security.
As the blue lights faded and our date drew to a close, I looked over at Farmer. He was sporting a sweatshirt, boots, and pajama pants. Apparently his second cow call of the night negated Wranglers as an apparel option.
With our date complete, our yard adequately fertilized by the errant cows because of the errant gate, and our PJ’s smelling
faintly a lot of eau de farm truck, we plodded back into the house.
A date equals quality time together, right?
Matching outfits, the sheriffs department, and all.