butter skiing

Butter skiing!

Last night at the end of the shift I put pats of butter on the bottoms of my clogs and had the 15-year-old busboy (a.k.a. Slave Adam) pull me around the kitchen.

I almost fell and cracked my pelvic bone a few times, but managed to stay upright.

When I summered on a dairy/pheasant/chicken farm in South Dakota when I was small, I would go shit skiing.

We would put these gigantic rubber waders over our clothes.

We'd say the "s" word a few times more, feeling delightfully naughty. (Not that any of the adults were ever around when we were playing in the hay or driving the truck to herd the cattle, anyway.)*

Then we'd grab the nearest cow's tail inside the milking stalls (the floors of which were always covered in poo).

The cow, irritated, would run away.

Okay, they were cows, so they would lightly jog away.

But there we'd be, holding fast across the length of the barn.

Shit skiing.

Hours of entertainment.

No nasty hills or rushing wind.

My friends Meghan and Jess, fellow waitresses, pointed out that growing up in Rhode Island they water skiied. They sailed. They swam. They even snow skiied in the winter.

But Sheila shit skiied.

*Not bad for an eight-year-old (and later a ten-year-old).

betholindo at 11:02 a.m.

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