out of the frying pan and into the fire

i hate doing yard work in florida.

i have recently taken up pipe smoking.

are the two related? hmm, maybe, maybe not. you get to be the judge. but if you study your psychology to any extent, you could almost say that "b" follows "a" like a connect-the-dots (so i guess that would make it "2" follows "1" but whatever.)

as i said, i hate doing yard work in florida. here's why. but get settled in, o beloved non-existent readers, get comfy. make sure you have your coffee or tea or tom collins or whathaveyou ready. without any further delays, here's why: the "grass" on my little sandbar of florida is a grass/weed hybrid that grows well on the sandy soil. as long as it gets regular water, and an overabundance of shade. anywhere else in the world, the shade would be doable, but since the only trees that grow on this spit of land are palm trees, and there aren't too many of those, the only part of my lawn that flourishes is the part that gets shaded by the three palms that occupy my yard, and the front, which is shaded by the house.

so when i mow, i am actually doing two things besides maintaining my rampant weed grass at an acceptable height (which, i can assure you, the beloveds, is a good two inches taller than your lawn, because if we cut the hybrid too low, it dies): 1) i am further killing the areas that don't grow well to begin with due to overexposure to the sun, and 2) i am kicking up an inordinate amount of sandy dust that sticks to everything on my person, mainly because it is already 95 degrees out at ten in the morning with a humidity percentage of the same, and i am already covered in sweat at the very thought of getting the mower out of the garage.

another disadvantage to doing yard work on a sandbar is the only thing maintaining ground stability is the aforementioned weed grass. anywhere that the "lawn" is not doing well is a shifting pit of sand. so turning a heavy lawnmower in these areas is extremely hard on my hands, shoulders, hips and knees.

now, for those of you, the beloved non-existents, who have been passing by this thistle bur lodged in the foot of the world wide web for several years (which i am pretty sure is absolutely no one anymore) or the ones that read my history to get caught up to date (which is one or two of you probably), you will know that i actually really like yard work. enjoy it. one could even say look forward to it. so, having said that, we know that it is yard work specifically in florida that i hate.

the yard needed some tending to bad though. so i set out. now, because it was already like a sauna at ten, this involved weeding the beds, and then coming inside for a half hour and drinking water. then going back out and edging. then coming back into the ac and drinking water. then limping back out to mow and sucking down clouds of sand whilst sweating gallons and damn near passing out from heat exhaustion as i finished up the last of the back yard. then coming inside, sitting for quite some time without moving much except to pour water down my unwilling throat. i didn't even have the energy to eat, though i probably needed it something fierce.

again, this is called heat exhaustion.

later on in the afternoon when the temperatures calmed somewhat, i was feeling better, and sat out on the front porch with a pipeful of vanilla cavendish. i took my time, savored the smoke, relaxed, beamed upon the hard work i had done and the fruits of my labors. when i was through, i tapped out my bowl in the corner of one of the flower beds nearest my chair.

our friends q n j came over to hang out with us, and we were talking and waiting for my wife to come home from work when the doorbell rings. it is one of the neighbor's teenage sons, and he says, "is your yard supposed to be on fire?"

yes, fire. yes, though technically not the yard so much that one small corner of the flower bed, which currently has a small, 8-inch diameter blaze spiking up redly from the mulch and a defunct sprinkler head that is now a black, foul-smelling wad of goo with a spring launching like a rocket from the center.

"umm, no, no it's not."

i douse the flames, and the mulch for a few inches around the burnt patch, remove the spring and melted head, and laugh with the neighbors about my bad luck.

the neighbor says, "i go out with kindling, starter fluid, dry wood, and a grill lighter and can't get a fire started, you tap out some ash, and poof!"

exactly.

so obviously an ashtray is in order, is it not, o beloved non-existent readers?

what was funnier was that i was pontificating wildly with q n j about the bruiser of a reactionary tizzy that my wife would throw upon noting the burnt patch and discovering its origin. i opined that she would probably set an immediate ban on pipe smoking of any sort, and then proceed to stomp around the house and take several minutes to calm back down to her usual jovial self.

is it bad that i am just a little disappointed that she walked right past the still-smelly black patch without noticing, and then when i outed myself in a case of complete honesty and full disclosure her reaction was simply, "well, i guess you'd better start keeping a coffee can out there, huh? goofball."

ultimately, i am happy that no serious damage was done (though i am thinking i should buy a cap for the sprinkler head just in case anyone ever decides to turn the water back on), and that no one was hurt, and that i learned my lesson and my wife blew it off like water off a duck's back.

and thanks for letting me be the doof here and playing along.

also, my friend melly is doing as well as can be expected on a barrage of chemo, and is being well-taken care of. thank you to all of you who are out there and still read who might've sent positive energy or prayers or whatever communication with deity that you personally believe in on her behalf. or just in general, cause i believe that taking a moment out of your day to think, "man, i hope the people out there that are in need of comfort, love, health, and strength are getting their needs met" counts.

damn, now the back of my throat burns. i am such a bawlbaby.

darth sardonic

My angel wings Were bruised and restrained

this post is sure to be angry and rant-like. just so's you know.

i had a ton of shit i wanted to do last night. i needed to fill out my paperwork for my gi bill, and fold and put away laundry, vacuum, shower n shave, etc.

it's a good thing i did my shower n shave first, cause i really needed it, i fucking reeked.

then i set to filling out the paperwork for my gi bill, that i was going to turn in today.

i needed to find a form that they gave me when i separated from active duty. so i looked in my ex-military paperwork. nope. then in the stuff i gathered together from my military days in order to be rejected for the dental assisting job here on base. nuh uh. then i looked in another folder with important documents. sorry, please try again. i went back through our files rabidly, like a poisoned man trying to find the antidote. then i went out to the garage and dove into the blue bin.

everyone must have some equivalent of the blue bin. the blue bin is where our keepsakes and shit that we don't really need but can't seem to part with end up. we almost never open it. in there, buried under my bombachos de gaucho and the "most improved" award i got my first year of x-country, beside my old scout uniform, i dig out all my air force files. i literally, no shit, have every piece of paper the air force ever gave me. except the one i need.

i look through again. i come back into the house and go through the files a third time. i text my wife, in dc for training, you know where my separation form is? which engenders a texting frenzy back and forth: nope, not there. not there either. looked there twice.

wife tells me to call, and i do. after which she tells me, "i'll find it when i get home on friday." but i wanted to turn it in tomorrow and get the process sta-- "it's only two days!" i looked everyw-- "yeah, but... i mean, it's you. i'll look, i know i remember seeing it." (the implication here is that i am incapable of finding shit, which is mostly true, but in this case, not really.)

how the sweet cherry fuckstain did i ever manage to get myself enrolled in two other major universities before my wife came into my life?!? let alone manage financial aide, buy books, etc etc? this is the same woman who not a week ago was chewing my ass out about getting a move on with the gi bill "because it's a lengthy process!"

she tells me to forget about it, not to worry, that she will find it when she gets home. i say, yeah, ok, it's not that big a deal, love you baby. and hang up.

then rip apart the files two more times, all the while cursing and fuming and about to lose my everloving mind.

nothing.

fuck it then! fuck it. i have spent several hours looking for this accursed piece of paper, to no avail, and now i don't give a shit whether i am able to turn in the paperwork tomorrow, or whether or not the clothes get folded.

i fix a whiskey n coke and sit to the computer and log into one of the chats i like to frequent, where someone i have been talking to manages to say just the wrong thing to me and i say, "yeah, i guess" instead of fighting with her moronic ass and log off and go to bed.

i awake exhausted, peeved, grumpy, and hungry for blood today.

while j and i have been working trimming the palm trees, as you can imagine, we have been leaving numerous piles of fronds all over the course, which someone usually comes and picks up with the frontloader.

for a couple days it was n, a lazy, good-for-nothing cunt who thinks the world owes him a living, and who has absolutely no qualms about sitting around the shop for an hour doing absolutely nothing, or talking to some hapless person at length about something that occured to him last night. j says, "i think he is mildly retarded." if he actually were, i might cut him some slack.

in the course of those two days, he picked up four piles. meanwhile, j and i added about fifteen more to the number of piles needing to be picked up.

the next day, r was on the frontloader, and in an hour picked up more than n had in two days.

j and i had had it. we were fed up with n's slovenly work ethic and his lackadaisical attitude, so we had a talk with our superintendant.

and he had a talk with n yesterday. so today, n is telling anyone who pretends to give a shit that he doesn't wanna hang out in the shop cause of "two certain individuals." i should point out that me n j are the only friends n has at work, as well. everyone, and i mean everyone, agrees that he is a shitty worker, and that his attitude stinks, but apparently he thinks that everyone but me, j, n our superintendant is on his side, cause he has been walking this story around the shop like a hooker on a streetcorner.

well fuck his dumb ass! he wouldn't dare say shit about it to me or j cause he knows from experience that we won't put up with his idiocy.

however, i really wish he would've said something to me today, cause i am chock full of piss n vinegar and would've loved to be provided for a deserving target upon which to unleash it.

meh, fuck it. life is stupid sometimes.

thanks for tagging along.

darth sardonic

chewing nails and spitting bullets...

life has a tendency to blindside, coming at you sideways like a drunken sailor with blood on his mind.

i was cruising along, working, having a good time, and they tell me i can't enroll in school.

what?!? what the fuck?!? cause it has been so long since i did a placement test and it is possible that my classes from alaska won't transfer over and blah yakkity spanky blah.

right before christmas break so i can't storm in there like unholy vengeance and give them a piece of my mind (actually, i can't do that, i have so little of it left for myself!)

then last week, out of the blue, like a brick dislodged from an 8th story window, they drop on my fragile cranium that they are cutting back my hours at work.

well, motherfucker!! now i have to be in school so my gi bill will offset the loss i take in my paycheck and i can use the free time i suddenly find forced upon myself to write papers (and my second novel, which i am tentatively calling The Island of Misfit Toys, depending on whether rankin/bass will fuck me in the ass legally for stealing a name from their christmas shows while in actuality the book has nearly nothing at all to do with rudolph the red-nosed reindeer or yukon cornelius and yet at the same time, has everything to do with them) and do homework and study for tests, as opposed to lolligagging around and spending money i don't have on shit i don't need.

so as soon as humanly possible after the offices of the hollowed halls of learning (heh heh) open back up, the hint of candy canes and champagne still in the air, i am in talking to an advisor. yes, i can attend school. yes, my gi bill will (most likely) reimburse me for it. yes, i can get into the autocad classes i want to take. i will have time to retake my placement test sometime this semester, but yes, they offer it right here on the campus.

whew! breathe a sigh of relief, dash off into the sun and sea breeze with the rest of the day and my education and my life wide open before me.

fuck those lazy good-for-nothing motherfuckers at work who are shafting me out of hours to try and save a few bucks. sod them, the bastards. i will be just fine.

my wife and i even talk about me possibly going into the air force reserves so that my gi bill stretches further (the government would pay a percentage, or maybe even all, of my tuition) and for the most part, i am down for that. however, there aren't any reserve openings in my past job of dental assisting here at the base, so i would have to cross-train into something else (com was one of the possibilities, working on computers n phonelines n radars n god knows what), which means a few weeks or maybe even months somewhere else (texas, most likely) to learn the new job. it also means, if i do this, that there is a good chance that i will get to write a memoirs from the other side this time, being the spouse that goes off to parts east and leaves my wife to fend for herself with the chitlins.

now, this is conjecture at this point. not anything to get ourselves bent into a twist about just yet.

then sat night, my neighbor j, who got me the (jodido) job that is fucking me for hours, and with whom i am working on a winter project of trimming all the palm trees on fuck knows how many acres of semi-green grass and old duffers who should really drop golf and take up bowling, and who, by the way, was even madder than myself at my hours being cut, stumbles up to me, beer in hand, and says, "k wants me to let you know you got your hours back."

so in a space of a couple weeks, i have ridden a rollercoaster from angst, anger, betrayal, and stress to ease, acceptance, and relaxation (possibly even the potential to have even more money than i planned on initially) so fast as to leave me breathless. and i find myself on the other side, thinking an umbrella drink and a sunbathe on warm sand with a dippy smile on my gob and the bikini chicks passing by is in order.

thanks, as always, for tumbling through it with me, o my faithful and wonderful non-existant readers.

darth sardonic

idiot spoon

"darth, you're gonna need a nap after work today. you've been working that idiot spoon all morning." says j, the skinny mechanic with the spikey bleached hair and glasses.

"i am going to need a nap, but it's cause i spent all night at the strip club with my neighbor and his visiting brother."

everyone laughs.

"what's an idiot spoon by the way?"

everyone laughs again.

"it's a shovel."

"oh, in that case, point of fact, i was working the idiot fork."

everyone laughs yet again.

me and the other new guy, z, were out digging trenches to put repaired sprinkler lines back into the ground out at the defunct nursery greens, a brown dead patch off the beaten path somewhere across the 14 fairway and on the other side of a pond. our boss wants to refurbish it and reseed it and use it as a sod bed from which we can pull patches when we get a dead spot.

truth be told, z was working the shovel, and i was coming along behind with a rake and pulling the dirt back into the trench over the new lines.

once that was done, the boss says, "what do we have that will tear up all the weeds and st augustine so we can smooth everything out and get it ready to seed?"

the mechanic j and another of the tractor operators and z and myself all sweep our weather eyes over the contents of the garage.

and we light upon the most beautiful thing i have ever seen: a battered, yellow, rust-pocked, oil-stained massey ferguson tractor that looked like it would as soon chew you up and spit you out as look at you. it actually looked like humungus' car in the road warrior, and i was already formulating plans in my head to steal it and convert it into a four-wheel death machine suitable for traveling the post-apocalyptic wastelands.

j and i rig up a grader with monstrous teeth option, top off the tank, and kick her in the guts. she coughs to life with a rattle and shake, spewing a gout of blue-gray smoke that tastes metallic, while i top off the air in the front tire.

j gives me a quick rundown: "low/hi stick here, and this one; reverse all the way top, 1st, 2nd, 3rd. gas. breaks. throttle. power steering. all the comforts of home."

then i am in the seat. and i am no longer tired. i mash the clutch down with my foot, stick it in low 1st, and give it the gas gently. we roar out of the garage like maniacs in search of gasoline and destruction on australian plains.

and i dig right in. literally. i get the motherfucker (which i began to call her, as she had "mf" emblazoned right there on her cowling, and considering her beaten and battered and angry demeanor, it somehow seemed appropriate) to the nursery green, dig the teeth in, and bog her right the fuck down, kicking up a rooster tail of sand and digging the four-foot-tall back tires into the ground about 8 inches. i am in hog heaven. grind her into reverse, get her out of the hole, and right back at it.

the last two hours of my day are spent ripping old weeds and dead grass apart.

and a fair chunk of today. ripping apart the ground, then smoothing it back out. digging the mfer into the sand, using and abusing her, all with a smile of the criminally insane plastered across my chevy chase as i sent birds hungry for the unhoused worms scattering with a loud knocking diesel bellow.

then, sadly, it was time to park the mfer again, and recommence with the idiot spoon, the noonday sun bleeding my energy as if someone had set a blood tap right in my neck and set it to wide open.

darth sardonic

go sell crazy somewhere else, we're all stocked up here...

fire ant bites are fun, i don't care what anyone tells you.

(and how that fuck do those little guys (maybe 2/16ths of an inch long) leave such itchy and aggravating bites? good lord. i believe everything serves a purpose, if nothing else, then food for other things, but not so sure anymore. maybe fire ants are the exception to the rule...)

i spent most of tuesday completely fucking soaking dripping wet. everyone says, "oh, was it that hot?"

no, the sprinklers broke that many times.

on the flip side, i got to spend a few hours hauling ass in the cart and indiana jonesing little pink flags out of the ground by leaning out with one foot on the gas, one foot braced against the floorboards, one arm on the wheel, and the other stretched out to snag the flags as i whizzed past.

still loving the job, overall.

darth sardonic