This morning we woke at dark thirty to take a ride in the country.
But first, we had to cuss and swear because the alarm, which should have been set for 5:30am, was set for 5:30PM. So we woke up at 6:45am, more than an hour late.
Then we had to cuss and swear because middle-aged bones and muscles are not excited about getting out of a nice, warm, flannel-sheeted bed into 66 degree air to dress for 6-8 degree air.
Then we had to cuss and swear because we realized we could not drive the truck into the backyard, due to snow.
Then we cussed and swore some more as we caught and carried 25 chickens from their huts to the back of the pickup. And some more, as they flapped their chubby little wings in protest. One caught me right good on the ear. I swore.
Guess what we did when we realized we'd made a wrong turn?
And when we realized that the roads we found ourselves on were still nasty from this weekends snowpocalypse?
Yes, we cussed and swore when we realized that we were later...and later...and later...than we planned, which was arranged around the schedule of our chicken butcher, who is NOT a nice man when people show up on time, much less late. Something about killing hundreds of flapping, living beings makes him grouchy on Kill Day.
But, you know, I've never heard him cuss and swear.
In the end, though, our chickens were delivered, and dispatched. Tomorrow, while I slumber in an operating room, our (dead) chickens will be picked up by our youngest son and deposited in our freezer.
I imagine he'll cuss and swear about something. He has such good role models!