Thursday, March 7, 2013

The Cows Don't Care What I Wear

Since leaving home, my chore clothes have been in somewhat of a disarray.

In other words, they are lost and I don't know where to find them.

Which in a round about way means my Dad misplaced them.

I know they are in the house somewhere. The man doesn't throw anything away.

"You never know when you're going to need it!"

Right, Daddy.

Nothing is ever my fault. I am the perfect child. For obvious reasons. 


So there I was in the middle of our mud room trying to find something to wear outside to do chores.

You see, you need designated chore clothes when you're on the farm.

Manure has this funny way of ruining any type of clothing for all intensive purposes other than doing cattle chores.

And all I could find was my Dad's denim cover-all's.

These things are literally a jumpsuit made of denim.

They were probably manufactured in the 20's. 

And by 20's I mean the 1920's. 

My Dad is a very tall man.

I am a not-so-tall woman.

Are you getting the picture here?

To put it simply I look like I'm wearing a giant denim potato sack.

I'm also quite sure that at this point I have not so much as combed my hair or brushed my teeth.

I find a fuchsia stocking hat with one of those fluffy balls on top. 

And Pioneer seed corn gloves that were made for Goliath's hands. 

Folks, I'm lookin' a hot mess.

But it is winter, in Iowa, and I'm setting out to embark on a journey through a sea of deep mucky manure to round up cattle.

I tuck my too-long denim jumpsuit pants in my boots, put my ridiculously bright stocking hat on my uncombed locks, and fit all five of my fingers into the thumb slot of my Goliath-sized gloves.

Off I go.

Because the cows don't care what I wear.


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