Last Saturday, we headed down to the South 47 Farms. South 47 sounds like a gang. Maybe a gang of white organic Eastside farmers that aggressively battle the chemical crew who come in yelling, “Pesticiiide!”
I didn’t see any Pacific islanders there, but that’s no surprise. I can spot Pacific islanders if I’m actively looking and by actively looking, I mean, turning on A&E and watching Dog the Bounty Hunter. Because that show accurately portrays how Pacific islanders always smoke meth and jump bail. You won’t see me on that show. I always pay my bondsman IN FULL.
They offered hayrides for a dollar and it would have been more fun if Nathan hadn’t tried to jump off the wagon or laugh maniacally at strangers. I had to sit on the wagon bed, (HA! No cushiony hay bale for you, mother!) to keep Nathan from exiting. When I stood up, my pants were dirty and hay covered.
All of a sudden, an old woman swept off the hay and dirt bits from my pants and I jumped. She said, “Oh, I’m not getting fresh with you dear.”
Okay, so two things: 1) how cute is that? Who says “getting fresh” anymore? and 2) Doesn’t touching a stranger’s butt fall under the definition of “getting fresh”?
I know I attract older people, but geez. This is a stretch.
And speaking of older people, I offered my husband this comedic gem this morning:
Me: So, when was the first time you saw Billy Joel in concert?
Me: Was he calling himself William then?