Crass Commercialism

It's a beautiful, sunny day here on the mini-farm. So did I work outside, play with the dogs, bask in the spring sunshine? No. I was feeling cranky, so I went shopping. Clothes shopping. My mother will be so proud.

I realize this is not a big event for most people, but then again, most people also don't have to drive 60 miles roundtrip to get to the nearest Victoria's Secret. And I'm not going to show you a photo of what I bought there (thanks, Tara!), because I feel funny showing the Internet my new underwear. I will share with you, however, that I actually found a bathing suit that doesn't make me look like the "Before" pictures on "Extreme Makeover," so praise Jesus' precious name, for that is a damn miracle.

So if you came here today hoping for more thigh-slapping adventures from the country, I am sorry. I know the title of this blog is "Going Country," not "Going Shopping." This is all I got from the rural files today though:

On my way into the city on one of the small rural roads I took, I crawled along for awhile behind a very large tractor driven by a very old man. The trailer behind the tractor had something in it that looked like cotton. Except I don't think people grow cotton around here. Not that I would know a field of cotton unless the plants had Fruit of the Loom on them--identifying crops is not exactly my strong suit. Anyway, on my way home on the same road, I got behind the very same very old man, pulling a now-empty trailer. I felt like I should pull up and ask how the work was coming along. I mean, I'd followed him for several miles both ways, so I felt like we should be acquainted.

But instead I whipped around him the first chance I got and resumed my 60 mile an hour pace. Yes, I left an old man on a tractor in my dust today. My Nissan rules!

And now, I'm going to go examine my purchases again. But I highly doubt I'll be driving the 60 miles to take anything back. Living in the country is a great cure for buyer's remorse.