That Time I Got Scammed Into Raising Sheep

Okay, the sheep.

As I’ve said before, I grew up in the country.  I was a poor, lonely, desperate housewife child living in the middle of nothing.  At some point, I presented my father with a couple of options.  And being the great father he was, he never shot down any ideas.  Directly, that is.

Me:  Sooooooo, I was thinking.

Dad: Yes?

horsesMe: Well, since we live soooooo far away from everything, wouldn’t it make sense for me to get a horse?

Dad: Why would that make sense?

Me: So then I could go places.

Dad:  Do you have any idea what it requires to take care of a horse?

Me: Yes. And I can say that with absolute certainty, after watching the neighbors.

Dad:  But you don’t even take care of the cats – I end up doing it.

Me: I think that’s a bit of an exaggeration.  Mom does it most the time.

Dad: Well, horses are rather expensive, how about we get something a little cheaper and easier to practice on first?

Me: And then I can get a horse?

Dad: Of course.

Me:  Okay. What did you have in mind?

For the next 2.5 years, I woke up at 5 am and transported 10 buckets of water and oats out to my pathetic herd of sheep that seemingly multiplied by the day.  We started with two. Again, after school I’d have to rush home to repeat the feeding ritual.  Then before bed, againThree meals a day?  What are these things, PEOPLE?  Actually, no, they are just fat freaking lazy animals that you can’t ride, which have no self control and eat all their food in two minutes, thus it needs constant replenishing.  Of course, in the wintertime, this ritual involved a snowsuit and a lot of tears. No one hates cold weather more than me.  Every time I went to the barn, all the water buckets were frozen.  As I sat on the dirt floor and chipped away at the ice so I could refill the buckets, I would pray for God to remove this burden from me.  As I was praying, I felt my desire for a horse evaporate into thin air.

Eventually, my dad sold the sheep to some guy who turned them into a fine dining experience.  All eleven of them.  Last week, as we were reminiscing about this experience, I made a very disturbing discovery.

Me:  Hey, remember when I wanted a horse, but you bought me SHEEP?%$#^!

Dad:  [laughs] Oh man.  That was funny. Well, you know I did the same thing with your brother.

Me: You did?

Dad:  Yea, he wanted a horse too so I made him take care of the neighbor’s one for a winter.  After that I said, “So do you want the horse or the motorcycle?”  He took the motorcycle.

Me:  Wait.  What? Motorcycle.  He got a motorcycle?!  That is total crap. I didn’t get ANYTHING.

Dad:  You never asked.

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Dear ESSENCE Magazine,

You’ve been appearing in my mailbox for going on 4 months now.  I called you, and like a red-headed stepchild you said you had nothing to do with it, which I think might just be a bold-faced lie from the pits of hell.  You told me to send an email to cancel the subscription I never ordered, and yet, I still find you waiting for me each month.  Now, one of us just isn’t being honest with ourselves.

It’s not that I don’t enjoy reading up on Queen Latifah’s “love your body” tips, or Jennifer Hudson’s illegitimate pregancy, or Kelly Rowland’s advice on what to wear to work.  But I already love my body, as a result of my non-daddy issues. And considering I write for reality TV, I knew about Jennifer Hudson’s pregnancy before she did.  And I wear the same thing to work as I wore to bed.  And most unfortunately, I cannot use any of the hair care products that you suggest, which is a travesty in itself, because I’m a whore for hair supplies and have it stockpiled under my vanity like I’m anticipating the Y2K of personal hygiene products.

working-out

I’m calling a truce.

I’m not sure how or why you became obsessed with me, but it has to stop.  I’m really not that cool.  Actually, I’m rather feisty.  Some might call it rude, but that is a bit preposterous.  If friendship is what you’re looking for, then I will only disappoint you.  The only thing I have to offer is painful honesty, which nobody seems to appreciate.  I never answer my phone. It takes an average of a month [possibly more depending on the weather, current levels of laziness, and if my microwave is broken or not] to listen to your voicemail.  If you mark it as urgent, there is a minimum turnaround time of two weeks.  Even if we become friends, you’ll have to live on pins and needles or I might use you for a cheap laugh on my blog.  Are you willing to become a new category?  I mean, is this what you truly want? Can you handle living in a constant state of: WTF?!

I’m quite sure that if you removed the beer goggles and weren’t so blinded by your unwarranted affection for me, you would discover that you need moreMore than I can give you.

Please stop stalking me,

Blunt.

P.S. My microwave broke again tonight… so, just something to think about.