Phoebblicious

One of the first things that popped out of Jess' mouth this morning was that there should be a gum called Phoebblicious, named after Phoebe, our nervous nine pound Beagle-Chihuahua mix. Unsure and uncaring of the ingredients it'd contain, I quickly agreed both outwardly and inwardly. Two things I knew for certain: that the gum would be tan and white (the color of Pheobe's ridicuously short hair), and that I'd chew it.

I then went about my usual morning routine thinking about Phoebblicious. This is rather uncharacteristic of me, since I usually like to save my day dreaming for work. Whether it is the cramped cubicle quarters or the drab interior design, all week dreams about being a farmer of sorts has plagued my mind. Yesterday, I had the whole dramatic thing laid out beautifully in my mind. The plowing, the discing, the planting - I'd be out in the open field, the soil freshly turned, listening to God in the sounds or silence of nature, over the soothing rumble of my tractor. A straw hat would look quite nice on my head, sheltering me from the blazing heat. At lunchtime, Jess would come up to the edge of the field where I was hard at work, with Phoebe and our kids in tow, waving her arms, indicating lunch was ready.

I'd automatically have a subscription to Field and Stream, and it would follow that I'd own a gun rack and know the ins and outs of the sports of hunting and fishing. Minus all the back-breaking work that comes along with farming, it'd be quite the good life. We'd live simply, relying on God for a good crop and to make ends meet. Things would only get better in the wintertime when the fields were covered with snow, and Jess and I'd be around the fireplace, drinking a warm drink, not having anywhere to go and...I'm not sure what else. Sometimes I get mixed up with Little House on the Praire. I guess one of us would have to learn the fiddle or something. At any rate, the kids would all be in bed (in their wooden lofts), and we'd be sure to fall into sleepy discussion about sewing or The Farmer's Almanac and when a good time would be to put in next year's crops.

When I proposed this wonderful new Utopia to Jess last night over dinner, she responded, more matter-of-factly than harshly,"You married the wrong girl for that." Afterwards, I had to admit that, although farming actually was in my blood (I come from a long line of farmers), somehow this particular gene missed me. I'm probably not really cut out for it. And that was basically the end of it. So, now I entertain lesser dreams, like Phoebblicious chewing gum.