The love of my life is a very practical man.
Sunday morning, he showed up at my house bright and early. Maybe it wasn’t early. I forgot to change the clocks. It was bright out though and I was grumpy. And still in my PJ’s. With bed head.
Romance comes in many forms. Fancy french food and candlelight. Popcorn and chic flics. Big bouquets of flowers. Or a truckload of cow shit. Although I don’t think you hear about this one too often. Probably cause it’s no fun to snuggle in and not even a Yankee Candle can help the smell.
Shitty romantic gestures – that’s my guy. He showed up this morning with a truck load of cow shit. So fresh it was steaming. I’m guessing the dairy farm has a drive thru where they back the cows up to your truck and fill ‘er up. Sort of like soft serve. But not.
Not only did he bring the shit. He helped me dish it out. Plus, he brought his tiller. He even let me amuse myself by churning up some garden dirt. My garden is ready for spring.
You can keep the flowers and the fine foods (although I wouldn’t object to a taco truck meal). I love a man who loves my garden. And is willing to get up and sling some shit with me.
So, to my beloved chicken farmer: thanks for putting up with all my shit. And bringing me some more.
As an added bonus… if you want to get through Harris Teeters in 10 minutes on a Sunday afternoon… go in wearing overalls and smelling like cow shit.
Up to my ankles in manure,
Franny
