I started this post with nothing but a title and a dream.

It might surprise you to know that I painted the cow used for my blog background before I'd even met my boyfriend. Actually, it probably wouldn't surprise you at all. I haven't actually mentioned that I'm dating a farmer yet, have I?

Right. Linear, ordered thinking. Got it.

I'm dating a farmer.

I'm from the city. My working definition of what a farm is had always been "place where young folk with big dreams and a lot of gumption escape from".

I've been informed that this is a very biased perspective. My perspective has changed, though. Well, expanded anyway. At least to "place where young folk with big dreams and a lot of gumption escape from, but not before changing their shoes".

I don't know why the man calls himself a farmer. All he has are cows. I'd always thought farmers who only had cows were, y'know, cowboys, but now I'm thinking maybe it has more to do with the kind of footwear a person favours than with the kind of food they raise.

My boyfriend does not wear cowboy boots. He wears rubber boots. Any rational person who's seen the price of cowboy boots, and who has seen cattle pasture, would do likewise. The main criteria for fashion in the pasture is hose-off-ability. Things with texture and decorative stitching hose off not worth a damn. Rubber, baby - there's your bovine friendly couture.

We were at Farm Fair this weekend. Got up early on Sunday to make sure we had enough time to see everything.

Let me restate that. I got up early on a Sunday morning, a day when I don't have to get up early, and I went to Farm Fair. It's a fair, where they feature all things farm related.

Yes, I like him that much.

There were a lot of people running around in cowboy hats. I've always questioned the practicality of something that looks capable of catching and riding a swift breeze all the way up to the jet stream, and am convinced that cowboy hats must fall from the sky at random intervals in remote areas of Africa and Asia. I do have to say, though, that those cowboys weren't squinting in the sun or having to constantly wipe rain off their faces. Those hats did offer full protection from the elements.

Did I mention that this was all indoors? Apparently cowboys are highly vulnerable to the effects of fluorescent lighting, because none of those guys were taking any chances with it.

We started our mosey (yes, I know how ridiculous I sound trying to talk cowboy. I couldn't even type that with a straight face) at the Dodge City Trade Show. Many cowboy boots and hats were for sale there. We also browsed a lot of practical items essential for living out on the range like livestock trailers, water filtration systems, and the Slap Chop. Then we made the mistake of lingering that half a moment too long that it took for an Emu Oil salesperson to latch on to us.

Yes, Emu. Yes, like the bird. Directly from the bird, actually, although whether it is secreted by the bird or forcibly squished out of a cold pressed Emu I didn't ask. I was too busy trying to fend off the free sample.

I failed. I smelled like Emu for the rest of the day. I can't quite describe the smell of Emu, but I can tell you that when you smell like Emu you don't feel the least bit sexy. I'm thinking zoo breeding programs must need a special budget allotment just for scented candles.

I'll bet you didn't even know that Emu oil is less greasy than Ostrich oil, did you? Well aren't you glad you stopped by my blog now!

Thoroughly lubricated and cradling a literal arm load of mini donuts so fresh I probably have concentric pucker marks seared into my windbreaker, we left for the main auditorium where we could blot out the smell of emu oil with horse droppings and enjoy our snacks. There was a draft team pull competition on. The cowboys competed to see whose horses could drag the most weight behind them, and the horses competed to see who could knock their cowboy's hat flying the furthest. I'm not too clear on the rules, but it's possible that bonus points were awarded for every hat to land in poo.

It was fun, though. Well, it was fun once I had been thoroughly reassured that the horses were doing nothing that could result in any kind of injury that would result in their needing to be shot. I might have been lied to, but that's okay. It was convincing. That's all I ask.

From there we examined the Alpacas, and made a damn fine show of looking like we knew what we should be examining them for, too. Why at one point we almost managed to appraise a specimen.

"That one's cute."

"Yes, but the darker wool might be harder to dye, so you might not get as much for it."

"Then maybe the darker ones are less expensive?"

"Ah yes, good appraisal."

Mostly, though, we just wandered around until someone nice took pity on us and let us pet one, and then went home satisfied. Well, mostly satisfied. A certain member of our two person party was very noticeably disappointed by the lack of cow related activities.

So sue me. I like cows.