Since marrying the Dairy Man almost three years ago, I routinely find myself privy to conversations that shock, horrify, and traumatize me.
A spirited discussion about artificial insemination at the dinner table? Why not? An impassioned debate about the best kind of teat dip in the church narthex? Makes sense. A detailed description of manure management relayed to friends at a fancy restaurant? Totally normal.
These farm-induced out-of-body experiences often cause me to ask, “Is this really my life?” Last night, dear friends, was one of those nights.
DM and I were sitting on the couch, working on our respective laptops. Out of the blue:
DM: (sniffs his hand) You know, I really like the smell of manure.
DM: I’m serious. Smell this (thrusts hand under MFW’s nose; MFW recoils and nearly falls off the couch trying to get away).
MFW: Umm, no thank you!
DM: (sniffs hand again) Good stuff. They should make candles that smell like this.
My husband is not normal. But Yankee Candles, I hope you’re listening. This is my life.