Who WAS that harridan, that shrieking fishwife, that hag-like viper who appeared in my yard this afternoon, under the guise of helping her husband clean up yet more tree waste? Surely, that couldn’t have been MOI? Stomping her feet and growling and swearing like the proverbial drunken sailor (apologies to sailors everywhere)? Why, I don’t act like that. Ever. Well, maybe just this once. SINCE I HAVE A FREAKIN’ MOUNTAIN OF DEAD TREE IN MY YARD TO BE HAND CUT AND JAMMED INTO FIFTEEN CONTAINERS AT A TIME, WHICH BY THE WAY, IS ALL WASTE MANAGEMENT WILL PICK UP AT A TIME, BUT WHICH MAKES ALMOST NO DIFFERENCE IN THE SIZE OF THE PILE!!! Ooooops. Am I yelling again, she asks meekly?
Oh, I tell you, folks…this is the gift that just keeps on giving. Giving you nightmares, that is. Not to mention blisters on your hands, fire ant bites on your ankles, sawdust up your nose, and a really foul temper to cap it all off.
Where is that rainbow when I need it? As I sit here with an ice pack on my foot–because of course when I tripped, I smacked the foot with the serious nerve damage in it on a tree limb and set off blowtorch-level burning pain–I’m having to dig way down deep for the memory of that “rainbow where one should never have been” miracle. But it’s still in my Memory Banks somewhere (talk about miracles), so I am working on accessing how I felt that day in order to get me through the rest of this one. Isn’t that what miracles are for? To help us through those days when we are so mad our teeth itch and lightning shoots out of our eye sockets? Yeah. A good miracle can get you through some pretty nasty stuff. But a flame thrower would be better. First, I’d burn down this mountain of debris in my yard, and then I’d go all Chuck Norris on the tree contractor’s backside. Now THAT would be a mood changer!
Hope you guys are all having a nicer Sunday than I am. But the good news is, I WILL live through it, the Good Lord willin’ (as my granny used to say), and tomorrow WILL be a better day. If for no other reason than Mark will be back at work, and the chainsaw will be back in the garage until next weekend. And that harridan of a shrieking fishwife will probably be gone, too. Mostly.