Real Housewife Of Jefferson County

Where is my cook? Where is my maid? Where is my gardener? Where is my laundress? Where is my psychologist? Where is my drug dealer? Where is my chauffer? Where is my personal trainer? Where is my cabana boy and my swimming pool guy?

Where in hell are my cabana and my swimming pool? 


Jesus, people. I just want my fair share of the wealth. I just want my fair share of the good life as illustrated on the TeeVee. I am a real housewife! I am not a Real Housewife. I guess there's a fucking difference because I sure don't have a room-sized closet full of prom dresses that show my giantshinybubbleboobed cleavage that I sit around and drink cocktails in.

What? Giantshinybubbleboobed isn't a word?
Well, it is at blessourhearts.

How in hell do those skinny, bony women hold those big old boobies up? I guess that's what Pilates is all about.

Okay. It's Friday. Before Memorial Day which for those of you who hold actual jobs and are actual members of society, means that you have a three-day weekend. For me, an actual housewife/hermit, it means very little. The chickens do not care one bit and will not be rearranging their schedules to include a memorial of any kind.

Speaking of chickens, those banties are wild. They are taking to roosting ON TOP OF THE HEN HOUSE! I mean, the big hen house. Like, ten feet up in the air. We go out to put everyone to bed and the banties are up there, peering down at us with sleepy eyes. Last night I just left them. Obviously, they are bred to roost in trees or something. Okay. Whatever.

Flopsy is taking her babies further and further afield. Yesterday she brought them up to the back steps for me and Owen to give treats to. We did. We fed them bread. They liked it. They clucked and rattled and chuckled and snatched. Flopsy tid-bitted the bread to them. She took it out of Owen's hands and then dropped it for the chicks. We also saw Elvis mount Flopsy yesterday. Well, roosters don't so much mount as they do just jump on them, which he did. To Flopsy. Right in front of her babies. They didn't seem to care.
"Oh for Christ sake, Elvis," I said.
He didn't seem to care either. The act took all of twelve seconds, if that, but he seemed pretty proud about it and then resumed eating corn scratch.

I wasn't wearing a prom dress and neither was Flopsy.

So Mr. Moon and I are heading over to the Florida Folk Festival today. Jessie is already over there, camping with her fellow Cicada Ladies. They are selling beer coozies that say Cicada Ladies on them and taking pre-orders for their CD's and performing. We plan to catch their 3:00 pm set. We'll also be able to see demonstrations of how to throw cast nets and take care of Florida Cracker Cows or something. I don't know. Frankly, I don't really care. It's going to be hot and there will be Porta Potties and fried food delight and I already have chiggers, thank you very much. Also, tick bites. I have GOT to quit peeing in the woods. I'd rather pee in the woods and risk Lyme Disease though, than use a Porta Potty.
Ick.
Plus, I fucking LIVE in a 24-hour-a-day, 7-days-a-week demonstration of Florida Folk shit.
Basically.
And I should probably wear a bra.

I'm just a grouch today. I think a real good afternoon for me would be to go to a country club and have a cobb salad and lay around a pool and have a cute guy bring me endless vodka tonics. There would be no Florida Cracker Cows in sight. Or cast nets. Or old-timey fiddlers. Or cloggers. Just the gentle lapping of chlorinated water and a beautifully appointed rest room for when I needed to pee.

But then again, there would be no Cicada Ladies either.
So there you go.
Plus, I don't belong to a country club. Plus, I might need to buy some Cicada Lady beer coozies.

I can't believe I have a daughter who's a musician. But I do. And she is. The other night before I went to bed Jessie was playing guitar sitting on the stairs in the hallway. One of the main reasons I wanted this house was because of that hallway. I knew that the acoustics in there would be perfect.

And they pretty much are.
Where did that girl get those fingers? Not from me. Not from her daddy.
Some old-timey musician, I guess. I probably carry him or her around with me in my genes and I don't even know it. So I'll just carry that old-timey musician genes with me to the Folk Festival and show him or her that I have done my part in keeping those genes alive.
I'll probably cry.

Then I'll come home and turn on the AC and pee on my potty which is inside of the house and hopefully, no ticks or chiggers will be involved and no damn cakes of that weird pink smelly shit they have in Porta Potties. And go put my chickens to bed. And then lay down and rest my cleavage.

Those are my big plans for the Memorial Day Weekend here in North Florida where we have our own sort of Good Life and it doesn't involve cabana boys or prom dresses. Which is just fine but frankly and in all honesty, I would not mind a maid.