Got Milk?

Dear god, I have just shut the door on an extended weekend of flashback hell as I say goodbye to my roommate’s mother. If you’ve never read my blog, before, then know that I am not the type who would be concerned whether either of these women should read this post. I write nothing I wouldn’t say to someone’s face – depending upon if they’re holding a weapon, at the time, of course. Some people just can’t take a vicious tongue-lashing.

I would like to thank my house mate and her mother for providing me with this little reminder of one of the many former joys of being married – way back when in the Paleozoic Era. However, though I have not been in such a blessed relationship for many years, legal or otherwise, I’m still reaping the – ahem – rewards of this platonic arrangement. ‘Tis a by-product of the familial connection, if only through tenancy and not co-dependency.

I feel like Ol’ McDonald pulled up in his pickup truck, Friday night, handed me a shovel and expected me to muck his barn of cow manure till Tuesday.

“Hey, this sucks!” I protested. “And it isn’t in my lease.”

“Sure, sure, sonny,” smiled Farmer McDonald, poking me in the ribs with his pitchfork handle. “It’s common law, it seems, but someone’s gotta do the dirty work. Besides, there are benefits to animal husbandry.”

“Now, hold it right there. I’m a confirmed bachelor and I did not buy this cow.”

“Oh, my,” gasped Ol’ McDonald, his voice and pitchfork quivering in a pre-Pinatubo buildup of apoplectic shock. “That’s just not right, son.”

“I’m not even getting the milk, mister,” I declared defiantly. “This is bullshit!”

“No, it’s definitely cow,” the farmer admonished me, sternly. “Though who you do in private is your own business. What’s wrong, is Bessy gettin’ a little bossy?”

“Listen, her mother came to visit for the weekend. A long weekend,” I sighed. “And, like most mother-daughter relationships, well, they’ve got issues. I felt like I was married, again, but . . . ”

“She’s upset with her mom and won’t put out?” the older man chuckled, poking me, again, in the same damn place.

“For cryin’ out loud, I ain’t milking her, you deaf hayseed! And stop poking me. Nobody’s getting poked around here, understand?”

“So, yer sayin’ she’s just your roommate?” he frowned, looking down at the dried brown stains on his mismatched galoshes.

“House mate, to be precise,” I exhaled in ecstatic relief. Finally, someone understood.

Ol’ McDonald put his hand on my shoulder, looked me square in the eye and said, “Son, if you aint’ gettin’ the milk, you shouldn’t have to muck the stall. I’m sorry to have troubled ya.”

The farmer turned and headed back to his truck, bits of alfalfa dropping from the cuffs of his coveralls like crumbs from Hansel’s hands. I quickly scooped them up and tossed them over the hedges to ensure he or any low-flying witches wouldn’t find their way back along the dotted course.

As he cranked the old engine to life, sputtering a plume of exhaust into the morning mist, I received a whiff of french fries and crinkled my nose.

“Biodiesel,” he explained, gunning it a bit. “Times are changin’.”

“Hey, wait,” I yelled, running for the curb. “Give me that pitchfork.”

“Changed yer mind about that cow,” he grinned, grinding the transmission into first gear as he nodded permission towards the tined tool in the bed of the truck.

“Not at all,” I smirked, grabbing the sharp implement. “But she may be back.”

Ol’ McDonald pulled into the street and headed home as I pondered all the animals living on his farm. They can’t all get along, all the time, so it’s best not to pen them up, together, for an extended period, because, eventually, shit happens. Keep a shovel handy.

Ol’ Kat’s spent some quality time down on the farm in his day and here’s his answer to the question:

Got Milk?

I raised a little cane
and raised a little hell
made wishes on some pennies in the bottom of a well

mucked a smelly stall
and sowed some wild oats
grew fond of several cows, but never any goats

made hay in the sun
and painted red the town
rolled around in the hay after the sun went down

got a farmer’s tan
and fetched a pail of water
got the farmer mad for playin’ with his daughter

sawed a few logs
and set a few posts
told a few lies and made a few boasts

drove a little fast
and broke a couple hearts
but never any bones; I’m still countin’ scars

I bled many times
and hurt like the dickens
crowin’ like the cock tryin’ to wake up all the chickens

worn out my jeans
and worn out my welcome
been around the block – to hell and back and then some

rubbed people right
and rubbed people wrong
never settled down and never stayed for long

got the baby milk
after gettin’ the baby’s mother
got the hell outta town when she caught me with another

now the grocery store
is the only place I hunt
I’ll pass on the milk, I think I’m lactose intolerant.

These days, I drink Rice Dream – and keep my pitchfork sharpened, just in case.

The Kat