Let The Crazy Begin

So it's ninety-seven degrees and so of course I've decided today is the day to get that garden under control.
I've been weeding for three hours now and the job is not nearly done and my arms are broken out from bugs and scratchy things and I am a sweaty piece of womankind- barely woman at this moment, more animal than human.
We have a next-door neighbor on the west side of us (not Petit Fleur who lives on the east side of us) whom even yesterday I would have described as batshit crazy. She has an unknown number of dogs, same with goats, all named (often after living family members), chickens, donkeys, mules, guinea hens and a turkey. This neighbor was outside working today, too, and her dogs got into my yard, at least the two labs, and we chatted for a bit about chickens when she came to retrieve them. I took her over to look at my chickens and then she brought me some eggs (three dozen beautiful yard eggs for six dollars- please!) and I realized something as we chatted.
I am as batshit crazy as she is.
I am as dirty, as sweaty, as poorly dressed, as insanely hatted, as obsessed with my yard and chickens. Okay, I don't have goats or those other animals (nor do I want them) but still...
What's the difference?
Well, she believes that Fox News is the only place you can hear the truth and I believe Fox News is the anti-christ and she goes to church and she's tougher and older than I am but beyond that we have more in common than I feel quite comfortable with.
Holy shit.
I've done it.
I've turned into a batshit crazy old southern lady who gardens in the midday sun wearing a stupid hat.

And my neighbor gave me some good advice- if I turn up with more roosters than I want, I should take them to Mango and Pinot's mother who will gladly take them for her stew pot.
Yes. I live in a community where there are people named Mango and Pinot and their mother will take your extra roosters off your hands.

Life is good.
And dreams do come true.