"Awk! $#@* me!"
That's the sound of me trying to extract the roast chicken from the oven, always terrified that the dishcloths are going to catch on fire and I'll have to drop everything and flames will consume us all... I must have been burned in a previous life.
I'd forgotten how you can get just slammed out at the pumpkin patch on a good-weather day: people lining up from 9:30 until 4:30 just to get out there in the fields and pick some pumpkins. Forgotten how your voice can get hoarse after 8 hours of singing with-I kid you not- maybe 10 minutes' worth of break time the whole day. How you'll get home, shoulders aching from the accordion, mind spinning with the same 3-chord tunes, inner ear whirling from the constant rocking and rolling of the wagons which you've sat on all day. I couldn't do it for more than 3 weeks, but it's pretty fun, even though it drives you crazy: there's a feeling of cameraderie, we're-all-in-this-craziness-together that's quite a rush, even though it's brutal. Besides, even though the hours are long and the breaks non-existant, we're making good wages and it'll be over soon. over soon. over soon. over soon.
Must go and yank the chicken out again to baste it. Wish me luck.