Stupid Cow

Last weekend we went back to Bill’s tiny little hometown, Broadus Montana. I’ve only been there once before, but I love it. Last year, there were hundreds of people there for the All-Class Reunion and 100^th birthday of the town, but this year, there were only a handful of people around.

The biggest issue I have with visiting Broadus is the 6-hour drive through ABSOLUTELY NOTHING. I entertain myself by updating my facebook status (whenever I get reception for more than a second or two).

#roadtrip. Trying to play ABC game but no street signs (or humans) for the last 50 miles! #middleofnowhere #help

#roadtrip South Dakota traffic jam: 1 car stopped at a light in road construction on a bridge. For half an hour. Because the guy that changes the light fell asleep.

I texted Sam a picture of this problem with the caption: South Dakota Woad Wefubishment, to which he responded, “Oh Qwap.”

#roadtrip Out to dinner. Discussing whether it is more work to fly with 6 kids or drive 6 hours with 2 dogs. #dogswin

This was after we tried to eat dinner at an outdoor restaurant while keeping the dogs in the back of the Pilot with the glass hatch open. Halfway through appetizers, we were chasing the stupid dogs through the parking lot while the waitress worried we were skipping out on the check. At least we provided some free entertainment for the other diners…

The dogs were upset about being banished to the trunk of the car, even though it is roughly the size of Manhattan Sister’s apartment. Brady perfected the “puh-puh-please” face.

When we arrived in Broadus, we were hit by the culture shock of having traveled from Boston (population 600,000) to Broadus (population 393) in less than three days.

As we pulled into town, I overheard the following phone conversation:

Bill’s Mom: Where are you?

Bill: At the stoplight.

Bill’s Mom: Which one?

Bill: There is only one…

This is a really, really small town.

Over the next few days, I was entertained (and occasionally panicked) by some interesting experiences. On the first morning, I woke up to a horrifying sound. I bolted upright in bed and shook Bill awake. “What was that?!?!” I asked him.

It was a rooster. *I woke up to an actual rooster crowing. #whereamI?

The next day, there was an amazing thunderstorm. If you are wondering why they call Montana, “Big Sky Country,” it is because the sky is freakin’ humungous. You can see forever and every weather scenario is exaggerated. It is gorgeous, and at times, a little scary. Bill decided to drive up to the rifle range. (Yes, there is a rifle range. Yes, Bill did seem a little too comfortable driving up that dirt path at night. Yes, I’m pretty sure I’m not the only girl that’s been up there.) At the top he stuck his head out of the sunroof to try to take pictures of the lightning with my new camera.

Things that are not a good idea:

1. Driving up a mountain path in the dark in a thunderstorm.

2. Sticking your head out of the sunroof during a thunderstorm.

3. Holding a metal object while sticking your head out of the sunroof during a thunderstorm.

Fortunately, Bill did not get struck by lightning, although it would have been a good I Told You So moment. He did, however, get this amazing picture:

The following day, *I broke my toe. Go ahead – ask me how.

Bill decided that it was time to introduce the City Girl to the farm. He took me across the street to meet some barnyard animals. First came the ducks. They were adorable, but had absolutely no interest in letting me pet them. They did make an awful lot of noise though.

Then we met some chickens. Bill told me about an entertaining activity of his youth – chicken football. [No animals were harmed in the writing of this story – but we’re getting close to the broken toe part.] At first, chicken football seemed like the kind of thing my east coast hippie parents would disapprove of, but it turned out to be pretty safe and kind funny.

How to Play Chicken Football:

1. Find a chicken coop with at least 5 chickens in it. (Good luck, Bostonians)

2. Dig up a big, juicy worm. (Yeah, right.)

3. Throw the worm to one of the chickens and watch all the other chickens chase him.

When I stopped laughing, it occurred to me that Bill and I had led significantly different childhoods.

Then we met the baby cows. Now baby cows in July are not tiny little adorable creatures. They weigh a few hundred pounds and are about 4 feet tall. They are also hungry. Apparently, most of the people who entered the cows’ pasture were coming to feed them, so the cows came right up to us. One of the cows (the bigger one) decided my finger looked like a bottle and started sucking on it. This was (mildly) surprising, and I jerked my finger away and made an embarrassingly girly sound. That pissed the cow off and he stomped on my toe.

*Answer: A cow stepped on it. A freakin cow. #thiswouldnothappeninBoston

When I texted a friend of mine later that evening to tell her that I’d broken my toe because a stupid cow stepped on it, she responded, “What was her name?”

T-Bone.

What?!?!

The next morning, Bill decided he’d better get me back home before I caused any more disasters or offended anymore livestock. I updated that facebook status before I lost reception again on the way home:

*Toe looks much better this morning. #stupidcow

*Thanks Broadus, Montana for another great weekend! Loved every minute! (except when that stupid cow stepped on me)