Wednesday, May 11, 2011

The Myth of the Farmer's Daughter

It was a usual morning of dropping the kids off at school (no, this is not a euphemism). Of course, the AUX feature in the car has stopped working so I was forced to listen to FM Radio and the howls of rebellion against NPR the second we got on the car were reason enough to change the station for the time being.

"I want 107.7," Anna declared. "That's what Nana always listens to."

"But that's country music," I gagged a little. "Like, modern country music."

Anna pushed her dread locked bangs off of her indolent face, "Whatever," she said, slumping into her seat. Seems to be her response for nearly everything these days.

"Fine, fine," I reluctantly changed the station. And, of course, was mortified at what I was listening to, even after the kids were "safely stowed" in the lobby of the elementary school.

First up, a song with a refrain even more simplistic than "Row Your Boat." Something along the lines of "Shake it, country girl." Of course, in the song she should be shaking it for everyone at the late-night tailgate party in the back woods but only he, the singer will get the real deal in the back of the truck. Sounds eerily like a scene from "The Accused" minus the arcade game.

I was hoping against hope that the next song would be better. And yes, I was still listening, intrigued now at what I knew was going to be a playlist of songs about chicks and how cute they are and once you get the pretty one, life is made in the shade. The announcer sounded the next song, "The Farmer's Daughter," which, apparently, is quickly climbing the charts to #1.

"Jesus Christ," I mumbled under my breath, laughing, of course, into the silence of the empty car.

Sure enough, or "sho' nuff" this one detailed the young man's journey from working the farm all day, and just when he was about to call it quits he "caught a glimpse" of the farmer's daughter. The rest is cheesy history. He works on the farm, they hook up in the back of his pick up and on the hood of the tractor every chance they get and in the end, she is serving him a glass of sweet tea after a hard day's work and they get to screw into eternity.

How sweet.

Let me tell you something about real country girls and the farmer's daughter. Real country girls couldn't get the dirt out from under their toenails no matter how hard we tried. It stays, just like the garden stays, until the dirt is froze and the last tomato is picked. The same goes for our fingernails.

Real country girls have a thin strip of brown skin right above their backsides because that's the place we always forget to put sunscreen (if we even use it) when we're outside for days at a time. We forget to offer people forks after we've filled their plates with potato salad and homemade burgers, which by the way, we met at one point when it was still a steer.

And you can forget about meeting up with us on the tractor and getting your hands up our little eyelet dress. Chances are, we've been out there since 6 am working that tractor and stink worse than you do and will run you over with the thing 'cause we are starving and need something to eat before we pass out.

Real country girls have cracked feet, crow's feet and big feet and are known to take walks down country roads with no shoes on. We rarely wear make-up and when we do it is likely that we will not have the proper means to wash it off and will look like a raccoon for a few days because we didn't know that "eye makeup remover" even existed.

As for shaking our stuff at a tailgate party, most real country boys have already ripped the tailgate off their trucks, either for convenience or to avoid having the thing rot completely through and fly off killing somebody on a country road.

Nope, we shake our business with each other in a rare appearance at a dance hall, where dressing up means putting on a clean shirt and digging around in the closet for the cowboy boots that aren't covered with REAL SH*T!

There you have it, myth debunked. If you're still interested, don't call. We leave our phones on windowsills and kitchen counters. If you cannot help yourself, stop by. But don't ask for a fork and you better drink the coffee if it's offered to you. If not, you can be sure...we ain't interested. In the least.

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