Work Ramblings

He crawled through the mud and the filth, pausing every now and then to catch his breath and take his bearings. So far, so good: he was staying on course. The jungle and rattle of his pursuers’ equipment had long since faded, and he felt the first dim stirrings of relief deep in his gut. He was going to make it. He was going to be safe. The positivity sustained him for another hour or so, but finally, exhaustion conquered his will. 

In the shelter of the next large tree he found, on the firmer ground beneath it, he stopped to pull himself up to a gently reclining position. He listened to the faint rustle of the leaves above him and to the louder chirping and croaking of crickets and frogs. Before he realized it, he was asleep where he lay. 

I have been at work for approximately 28 years so far today, and this is all I’ve written. Not even a full sheet of scratch paper.  

I don’t even feel the need to finish it or establish anything. Oh, well. 

Tomorrow’s another day. 

Another day to piss people off by pointing out that they have no right to dictate how someone unrelated lives her life. Even that hasn’t helped how long and draggy this day has been. 

Maybe this final hour will be slightly less than six subjective years. 



Safety First

When we moved to our new home, we learned that we needed a mat for the back door because of the sheer volume of mud any amount of rain creates in the yard.

We went to see the pants lady. Her store is right down the road, and she sells secondhand uniform pants and shirts, shop rags, and floor mats.

The choice was a no-brainer. A plain mat, or this?

 
Of course this!


Steve & Co., or How I Grew Three Inches Taller

I thought I’d already introduced you to Steve, but a quick search tells me otherwise.

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Steve is the green one, top right. The black and red belongs to my brother; you may note the crack along his equator.

Steve came to us from a yard sale, for the meager price of a single bumpy-sides quarter, as Abby calls them. Every Halloween he enjoys holding down our tombstone decoration.

I am unaware of the history of Steve’s black and red brother.

But they aren’t the real stars of the story today. It’s all about the mud.

When we merrily signed paperwork and made deposits, we did not consider the state of the yard after a heavy rain. In retrospect, this is unfortunate, but what else were we to do? This was the only option in our price range and location.

The mud and snow, however, have taught me things that I never knew I didn’t know. Like how my pair of Danskin tennys, while comfortable for making groceries and taking hikes, do not easily let go of the squishy things that cling to their soles.

During the first snow, I wore them out and left a trail behind me of dark, snowless mudholes. Every step I took increased the number of layers I walked on, until I was teetering and near disaster. I may be slightly exaggerating here. Still, Ian admonished me to stop walking around in the pretty snow because I was collecting all of it on my feet. I’ve only worn them once since then.

The mud can be disastrous as well. I wore my brother’s hightop Nikes–don’t ask me what they are, for a student of athletic shoe breeds I am not–to encourage the dog to brave the yard to go potty. I nearly lost one, then nearly lost myself in this muddy waste we call a yard. And the more steps I took, the larger my feet became, until I resembled a large duck. The mud clung to the sides of the shoes, and then more mud clung to that mud, and so on, ad infinitum.

I think I just realized why my legs were sore that one day. Stupid heavy muddy feet.