We got a thing going on.
A milk thing, that is.
Emma, my merry milkmaid, left for Syracuse with Nathaniel and the rest of the choir "jammers" early Wednesday morning, leaving me with Fiona McBride milking duty.
I've milked goats. Milking a cow is a totally different thing. It requires a lot of hand and arm strength. Yesterday, when I tried to write a check at Mass, my hand involuntarily gripped the pen so tightly that I thought the pen would squirt ink. Not unusual for a fountain pen, but this was a cheap ballpoint.
Last night's milking proved particularly grueling. My hands, arms, shoulders, and neck all "seized up", requiring the administration of two ibuprofen and a shot of bourbon. My asking for straight liquor frightened my dear husband. I'm pretty sure it's the first time I've made such a request in our 30 years of marriage. He left me on the couch with my glass of liquid fire, put on his boots, and took Mrs. McBride back to the pasture for me. She is very sociable and enjoys coming to the back door to be milked. She enjoys it so much that she never wants to go back, and you have to drag her part way. I could not have done it last night.
The good news is that I'm getting stronger every day. By the time Emma and Nathaniel return on Tuesday, I'll be ready to arm wrestle Arnold Schwarzenegger.
I'd love to write more, but I'm already late for the morning milking.
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