SPRING WORK: Day 3 - Rated R for bad Language and Crude Humor

I was not going to put this little story on my blog simply because it was inappropriate, but after sharing it with the whole of the local grocery store this morning I figured, what the hell. You all are brave if you have been following me anyway.
Sunday was Day 3 of Spring Work, and I was happy because today Brett was driving tractor, and not me. His turn to suck! The Boss took him out just after 8:00 A.M. to give him his first lesson. For those of you who don't know, Brett is 15 and up to this point he has only plowed for us, which apparently, although I have never done it, is not as technical as harrowing. I waited until just after 10 o'clock to text the Boss and get a read on the competition.
How's he doing?
He's a natural.
Figures.
Such a natural in fact that the Boss is going to leave him out there to get that much needed spraying done. I spend the remainder of the day doing what farm wives do when they are not on a tractor: cleaning house. Now, I have always liked to clean my house. In fact I have severe OCD about it. I am so anal about it that the joke around here is that you better hold on to your coffee cup if you want more because if you set it down I will have picked it up and put it in the dishwasher. I like a clean house, and I liked that I had all day to clean it.
Well, all day that is between moving equipment, cleaning rabbit cages, making lunches, answering texts, paying bills, doing the endless laundry, teaching the other son to mow the lawn, playing with those new cute piggies, and constantly reprimanding my daughter for letting her bunny sit the counter. Remember the Sheep? Rabbit is starting to look mighty tasty about now.
Anyway, I digress. The funny part of the day is when I get a text from Brett that he is broke down. Bad.
The bar thingy snapped in half and a green thing is missing. And, I'm in the back of the field. Way in the back.
Hmmm...let's see...nope, I don't have those is the tool drawer. In fact I don't even know what they are, but he says it's bad, so I have to go with that.
Does it need welded? I ask.
Yeah Mom, he texts back. It's bad.
Crap! I advise him not to tell the Boss yet. He just started spraying and I don't want him to have to stop if it isn't necessary. I grab my daughter, more so that she would keep her bunny off of my furniture than anything else, and I head out to the field.
When I get there I see that he is not lying; not only is he in the back, but he is way in the back, high on a hill and behind a ditch that we cannot cross in the pick-up. No way. No how. So, he decides to walk down to meet me. We wait, and when he gets down to us, he retells the story.
I say, "Well, lets not just stand around here, let's go have a look."
At which point I get a groan from the daughter. She is not at all interested in walking back through the field. She's too tired. Which to me means: she needs to get out and walk through the field. So, we do and boy howdy is it a hike. The tractor is alike a mirage on a highway and I swear that it is getting further and further away with every step.
Finally we make it up there and I look at the two broken parts. He's right, it's a bar. But it's more like an iron finger that holds two bars together. In addition, there is a green thing missing that holds the bar on, but it doesn't need welded. The finger and the green thing are attached by screws and the screws are missing.
"Hell," I say. And this is where this blog get's the R-rating for language and crude humor. "I can fix that on my own. I don't need a penis to fix that."
When I say that, I am referring solely to a funny story another farm wife told me about her daughter backing the trailer up. I have blogged about this before, but it is so funny it is always worth bringing up again. My friend's daughter wanted to wait for Dad in order to back the trailer up for her, and her mom, the farm wife, said to her, "You don't need a penis to back up a trailer. Have you ever seen your dad whip out his penis to back up a trailer?"
Since then, I have used that as my own motto whenever I talk to my children about what we can and cannot do on our own. It's wrong. It's crude. But funny? Yeah!
"Did you check the toolbox for parts?" I ask.
"What toolbox?" he says.
"The one on the front of the tractor. It has bolts and junk."
"Nope," he said. "Didn't know there was one."
We pop up there and dig around until we locate a bolt, a washer, and a nut. Then we find the tools and I proudly walk over and replace the green thing. I rock! Hell yeah, I rock. I've heard hired hands call the Boss for less.
"There," I say, wiping the dirt directly on my butt for good measure. I earned that dirt. It's going home with me.
"What about the finger?" he says, pointing to the other broken part. "You still might need a penis for that."
"The hell I do," I say. "Get over there to that tool box and find the part."
By this time the Boss has gotten word over the radio that we are broke down and that it is his wife, his son and his young daughter out in the field trying to fix it, so he is on his way. I'm fairly sure that Brett is over at that tool box texting the Boss like mad, advising him that I am making the penis comments again and that he better get out here STAT before something gets broke even worse.
"Well," I say as Brett comes back. "What did ya' find."
"Nothing Mom," he said. "I told you we needed to call the Boss."
"No we don't," I say, pushing past him.
By this time, the Boss is already hiking up the hill, so I'm rummaging even faster. I can do this without him. I know I can. But, I can't. There are no fingers in there. I turn around to face the Boss, dejected at the fact that he had to rescue the damsel in distress - and I'm talking about Brett here. Just kidding.
"What's the problem?"
"That finger," I say. "Don't you have a spare here? If you did I could have fixed it without you."
"Did you see all the chain in the toolbox?" he asks.
He's being super nice, but I know he hated shutting off that sprayer.
"Yeah," I say, following him like an eager puppy back to the tool box.
"Well," he said. "All you do is wrap this chain around it and bolt it tight. It's a farmer fix, but it will get you through the day."
"Oh," I say, watching him simply put it around the bar.
"See, Mom," Brett says, grinning at me. "Guess you needed a penis after all."