Here's the deal with Slice and I. We are two fiercely independent women, who would rather sulk and do things on our own, before we legitimately asked for help. Last winter I stubbornly, and probably stupidly, shoveled my roof, albeit, I was crying, but I was doing it on my own. But then Slice wrangled some troops and helped me with the rest (effff yooooooou Winter in New England!). That previous fall I also did my leaves solo, which is no small task when you have nearly 4 acres of land. Of course, I wound up crying in a leaf pile then as well, when I thought I lost my stupid dog collar transmitter for my mutt of a dog, who shall from this day forward be referred to as 'God Dog'. Tarps, Backpack blowers, and a stupid dog dragging sticks. Good times. But the tasks are all completed, through blood sweat and tears! But I digress. Back to Thirsty Thursday afternoon in the 'field.
So the plan was, leave work at 3:30, head to my humble abode, and do work! What is work, you may ask? Ask away. Work involves playing lumber jack and dragging in wood from my backyard, into my basement. Gotta feed the wood burning furnace! But, dragging wood means utilizing the man tool of my Mahindra tractor, the tractor that brings all the boys to my yard. If you ever need to figure out a way to coerce grown men into helping a damsel in distress, the way to their heart is through power tools. Well, food and power tools. It's debatable at times which one pulls ahead in the race to win. But a big honkin' farm like tractor will definitely help. And pretending to be cute and helpless, that helps too. I mean, we pretend at being helpless, cute goes without saying!
Anyways, Slice and I started haulin' wood and quickly settled into our routine. I drive back and forth from the dump with the wood, she stacks in the basement, God Dog runs around the backyard, generally like a jerkoff, trying to get run over by the tractor and test his boundaries by running through the electrical boundary of the yard. It's a well oiled machine!
We finish woodlympics, Slice puts away her gloves that she has been referring to all afternoon as her OJ Gloves, and we stumble on a trusty friend, one who has been known to follow us into battle, and trouble - Mr. Boston. Blackberry Brandy. Riot Punch, as Slice affectionately refers to him as. Whatever you call it, it's nasty. But yet delicious at the same time. What accompanies Mr. Boston? Golf ball whacking in the back yard of course!
Picture this. Two slobs - Slice and I - with a can of Bud Light in one hand, Blackberry Brandy on the ground, Slice covered in dirt with her UConn hoody on, and I in this grubby lumberjack inspired flannel shirt, teeing up to do some damage in the backyard. Simply awesome right? It was. Especially when God Dog was nearly hit with a line drive by Slice with her one in a million not-so-sliced drives!
This brings us to step 2 of the evening. Sledge and Slice Movers Inc! We had arranged to go and check out this armoire on Craigslist, and with a BF who can't lift, bend or twist for 6 weeks, female lifters united! However it was like a scene straight out of the Twilight Zone. First we are almost sidelined by an offensive driver who apparently would rather t-bone us in the street instead of waiting for us to back into the driveway, then, the seller of the armoire was clearly more impressed with our slop tart appearance and actual motivation to move this thing then he was in even contemplating helping us. He kept talking about his blown ACL and why he couldn't ride that trusty steed of a dirtbike he had parked in his garage. How about shut up and get out of our way! As we're standing in the bed of the truck, I look at Slice and say "We should blog about this stuff! I think it's pretty humorous!"
And so here we are. The story of two chicks who do dude like things. Jump on, hold on tight and prepare for the ride!
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