Check out my new About Me blurb. Notice anything different? Yup. No more 4-hour round-trip commute. No more job. I'd love to take up 4 or 5 paragraphs lamenting about office politics, but I will spare you the details. Instead, I'd like to demonstrate that despite my lack of a job, I am still living up to my online handle. Oh yes, it'll take more than losing my job to take the "Busy" out of this dad. Today I made d Wife very happy. I solved our indoor dirtpile problem.
As some of you more astute readers have pointed out in the past, my backyard has no grass. I killed the grass by inflicting it with a lethal dose of lazy. We've been trying for the past year to get a building permit for some renovations, and sometime during the first few months of this ordeal, I stopped taking care of our lawn. "Once they start construction, the grass will die anyway," I said. 9 months ago.
Well, I guess dogs love rolling in dirt. And fur holds dirt. Real good. Until you get indoors. And dirt pisses off some people who happen to be the mother of your child. And if you have no job, you sure as Hell better start eliminating as many of these other flash points as possible.
One Poor Sod's Sod Adventure
"Some manual labor! That ought to get the spirit pumping," I think to myself as I pull into the landscaping warehouse. My order from the day before has been delivered and I'm ready to haul it home. 400 sq. ft. of fresh Marathon sod.
"Can you guys forklift this into my truck?" I ask.
"Sure," says the helpful clerk. "Just sign this release."
The form is in Spanish. What's the harm? If they bust my truck, it will have been broken in the line of duty. Bragging rights. I sign. And I wait. 10 minutes. 15 minutes. 20 minutes...
"Well, I did just cancel my gym membership and I do need the exercise..."
Have you ever tossed 100 slabs of dirt and grass up into a truck by hand? Don't. Unless your best friend is a chiropractor. And no, the damn forklift never came. But I have to admit, there is a certain amount of pride to be gained from moving 3,000 lbs. of anything from one locale to another with your bare hands.
Like my new sod pelt? I killed it myself.
Ok, ready to transform my post nuclear-winter backyard into something else. Anything else.
Does this not resemble a scene from "The Hills Have Eyes"?
In case you're wondering, that's stuffing from a chew toy.
I get to work. Laying sod is actually quite therapeutic. There's a Tetris-like zen to fitting all the rectangles together and watching the yard go from tan to green. My dogs are eating the steer manure. No, not sniffing and licking. Eating it. With gusto. Shooing them away becomes futile after a certain point. I just tell them to save me some for the yard.
Sometime in the afternoon, my equally unemployed sister pays me a visit. She's brought lunch! A prosciutto sandwich on brioche and cannolis. That's what lumberjacks eat for lunch, right? I'm thinking yes, because I am feeling mighty caveman after that meal. The aroma of cow poop and powdered sugar on my clothes just brings out the savage in me. I'm ready to handle some lawn!
Your grass is ass!
At this point, I'm running on pure adrenaline. Wouldn't it be nice to have this all done by the time d Wife gets home? Yes, yes it would, considering the fact that you didn't look for a job today. I lay down the last slab of grass and pat myself on the back. I totally guesstimated the square footage of sod I needed and I only ended up buying one extra slab. I'm good. Damn good. And I'm done. 10 minutes before she pulls into the drive.
When d wife arrives home, she sees this:
You do not see a gaping seam near Krypto's paw. And these aren't the droids you're looking for.
Oh wait! Dammit. I wasn't done. I do have one more task to complete.