The View from Above

Ever since I have remembered there’s a transport component under my “thinking meat” (thanks, Giggerota!), I’ve been working on getting myself in better shape. Translation: I’ve been losing a little weight and becoming more fit. It’s a bit of work, but my life is so empty that I don’t really miss the hours of sitting around contemplating the bleak realities of existence. Now, I sweat! Which, of course, has me paranoid that perhaps my house will start to smell like a gymnasium. Nobody’s said anything yet, though. And honestly, I am glad about doing this for myself: even if life isn’t always a gas, it sure beats the hell out of decomposing. Besides, now when I look down, I can see my junk! Hi, penis! I see you!

Can you dig it?

I decided that I wanted to sort of get a jump on my upcoming constructional whiz-a-ma-goggery, so I dug a hole in the back yard. Yes, it sounds a little crazy, until I explain: I have to remove the palm tree that grows at the corner of where the existing foundation is and is sort of in the way of where the new foundation is going to go. So, armed with my trusty shovel (and slathered in SPF 45), I set out to dig a space around the base of the tree to make it easier to pull out. Of course, things immediately started to go wrong.
I started out by piercing the ground with my spade, only to be whacked by a frond. Looking up, I decided that this job was going to have to begin with some trimming. So, I cut off most of the fronds that were hanging down in my way. That’s when I noticed the bees. Apparently, it is flowering time for that particular palm, so it was simply covered in bees. I figured that since I wasn’t going to be doing any more frond-hacking, I should be safe (even in light of my recent insect incidences). Did a bee whiz down to butt against me? Of course, silly! This is me we are talking about. Fortunately, I did not freak out and scream like a little sissy: I simply stood still until it was safe to move again. Problems solved, right? Hah! Bitches, you know me: this story is just getting started. So, free of both bees and fronds, I begin to dig my circular way around the base of this palm. I get maybe half of the way around before I hear chunk.
It’s a sound I know all too well: that of a shovel on concrete. See, when I was in my later teens, my mom went through a major landscaping phase and guess who had to dig the holes? That’s right! Now, the fun part of the story comes when I tell you that apparently the contractors who had built the particular neighborhood my parents live in decided to use their backyard as the dump for the project. So, I pulled up all kinds of interesting things (old metal paint cans, cinder blocks, rolls of linoleum, two-by-fours) as I dug the holes for mom. It was uncanny: she was like a construction debris witch (as opposed to a water witch) or something. Without fail, wherever she wanted to plant something, there would be at least one cinder block (usually three or four). Each time, I had to dig up whatever it was I had chunked down upon.
So, of course, why should my own backyard be any different? I figured that it was just a block, and that I would move on with my life after I dug it up. So, I moved about a foot behind it and chunk. I move a foot to the left. Chunk. A foot to the right. Chunk. Two feet back. Chunk. I decide to just be completely ridiculous and move six feet away. Oh yes, you guessed it: chunk. I could continue on in this vein, but what would be the point? The end result is a 6x9 hole in the yard that has revealed three adjoining concrete pads poured about six inches below the level of the ground. As I worked to excavate them, I kept thinking: what’s under this? Because the thought that someone would dig a hole, pour three concrete pads into a 6x9 area, and then cover them back up with dirt is just to inconceivable. I have decided that these slabs are either covering up the remains of an old septic system or the remains of three people. Since tonight is the full moon, I figure this would be the perfect time for them to rise from their graves and wreak undead vengeance upon those who murdered them. Either that, or they will attack me, since we all know zombies are just all about the brains. I guess I’ll find out sooner or later. You’ll know I’ve been zombified if my next post reads something like this: “brains… brains… brains…” If that happens, you know what you have to do.

Some calls it madness

I have a problem. Well, let me not start out with such a blatant falsehood: I have many problems, but am writing only about this one in particular today (if you want to know about my other problems, please pose as an online therapist and I may gladly spill my guts). Here’s the problem proving most vexsome to me recently: bugs. Bugs is used here as a catch-all for everything that creeps, crawls, flits, flies, and does all or some of those without the use of a backbone. I will start with the least annoying (but still somewhat) of my recent encounters: moths. Somehow, these little tiny moths keep getting in my house. Seems like I find one flittering in my kitchen every day. I catch it (non-violence extends to even my insect brethren) and release it outside. For all I know, it could be the same moth that keeps getting in (I’ve never inquired as to their names and I think these things die after a couple of weeks, anyway). On top of that, spiders (which I know are not insects: please refer to the disclaimer I wrote, jerkwad) have apparently decided that I should be eaten alive. They have staked out their gauzy nets across the entries to my home, each one secretly hoping to be the one to finally catch me unawares and birth a seemingly infinite number of generations from the bounty of my desiccated carcass. Either that, or they are trying to be helpful and recreate one of the sets from Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom (which was the shittiest movie in that trilogy anyway). The other night, I even had one that started to spin a web inside. Like in the hallway. That did it: I grabbed the broom, swept the little bastard down from the ceiling, and then took it outside. Hey, spiders eat lots of harmful insects like mosquitoes: they deserve to live. Even when they get inside my house. The things that don’t deserve to live are the carpenter ants I have started seeing in my house. Those fuckers die a swift death. I ain’t re-redoing this house cuz of no fucking ants. The cream on top of this wriggly cake came today, when I went out for a bike ride. I bought a new bike and decided that I am always going to wear my helmet even though it makes me look mental (although perhaps “more mental” would be the most accurate). I buckled on my helmet, and set off on my merry way. Well, I haven’t gotten more than 20 seconds into this ride when I heard a bzzz and the poing of something bouncing on my helmet. I processed this to mean that I crossed paths with a bee, it rebounded off my helmet, no harm, no foul. UNTIL I felt the tickle of little legs brushing the hairs on my head, and an angrier sort of BZZZZZ. That’s when I realize I need to do something foolish: either I will begin to bang myself on the head, trying to dislodge the bee from the helmet groove it has fallen into (and probably ending up stung in the bargain), or I will quickly stop, unbuckle my helmet, and fling it a reasonable distance away from me. Since I didn’t particularly enjoy the last time I got stung, I decided to choose option 2. I quickly braked, unbuckled, and flung. I’m sure it was an interesting spectacle to the car that drove past me just then. Yes: definitely more mental.