Bent Words

Bent Words

November 20, 2007

Saturday was a little slice of satanic suffrage.

The official opening of Bambi Butchering season coupled with gray slats of continual rain caused would-be customers to remain at a distance from our shop doors so I ‘decided’ to stir things up a bit by selling the wrong watercraft with a crap-tac-ular trailer to a 6’ 5”, 300-pound Russian guy from New York.

The Honda PWC he purchased was brand new. The one I presented to him was actually a demo with seven hours worth of roughhousing on it. The nice trailer he purchased was also brand new. The one I was about to send him off with, as he drove out here non-stop and was planning to drive back non-stop, was missing a tail light and had a frayed rope. Once all this was realized, it seemed that the general consensus throughout the shop was that Laura Sucks.

The entire sales team had to make way in the showroom in order to move another (NEW) watercraft off the floor. The entire service department had to go get another trailer, set it up and winterize yet another PWC. The parts department had to remove the accessories I sold to the first unit and charge them to the second unit. The finance department had to destroy all previous paperwork and draw up new contracts (with Honda Financing, no less, the most painful company to swap paper with). I had to buy lunch for the giant Russian dude, Red Bull’s for everyone else and kick people who made more than three snide remarks when I passed by.

So not only was every department suddenly employed in fixing my F up, we were also greeted with the fact that we would not, as originally decided, close the shop early.

It was a long day.

Laura Sucks and she’s f’ing sorry already.

Sunday was better. Sunday was minimal work with eBay, 75 pounds of laundry to the ‘rents, freshly made chocolate chips cookies followed by Bloody Marys and football. My sanctuary.

In order to get a little exercise during halftime, I bounded up the stairs behind my dad to the parking area to help him bring down firewood from behind the shed. Instead of firewood, he handed me a lawnmower.

So here’s the pretty lame story about how Laura stopped sucking so much and became a mulcher.

I actually enjoyed it thoroughly but wondered at my father’s reaction once he noticed that I mulched a new pattern into his lawn. I mean, I was getting the job done; just not quite his way. I basically broke up the lawn into four squares and then attacked each section – Section one, the lake area (complicated by the compost bin), section two, the house area (complicated by a miscellaneous post), section three, the ex-garden area where mysterious things grown and section four, the highly laudable middle area (stupid complicated middle area with all its stupid trees that one has to circle only to get stuck on a stupid above-ground root). My dad normally just starts at the outside perimeter of the lawn and works his way in but, thanks to his highly complicated daughter, the lawn now has four, slightly crooked squares.

It makes one wonder if I ever colored within the lines.

At one point, while mulching Zone One, I had to stop all operations in order to investigate a highly questionable pile of pebbles in my path. Upon further inspection, I came to the conclusion that this was not, indeed, a pile of mere pebbles but a rather large pile of Bambi leftovers. In fact, this was likely not the work of an animal that resembled Bambi at all but, instead, Bambi’s 14-point buck of a father. The pile was huge. The pile needed to be removed before work could commence.

So I grabbed an industrial-sized shovel from the side of the house (my mother looking on suspiciously as though I were about to dig a hole in her back yard and bury all evidence of my least favorite co-worker), tromped back down to area designated as Zone One and shoveled away the shit.

Thence, I commenced mulching and had the opportunity to think about all sorts of things.

I thought about tire pressure (must check!) and Florida, garnering new socks and finding a damned winter hat. I thought about Thanksgiving and who I had to respond to regarding eBay. I thought about how much I suck in school this semester and how crazy my mind’s been lately.

I thought about The Boy who traveled to Dallas to enjoy some dirt riding. I thought about the weather there (80 f’ing degrees) and how I wished I were there. It was then, while I was mulching on a fairly mild day, that I officially decided that I, in advance, hate winter. I am not looking forward to how I can no longer shovel snow efficiently due to two bunk shoulders, my inability to drive effectively in the white crap and how much ice residing anywhere other than my drink pretty much just pisses me off.

Mostly, I thought about The Boy. I miss The Boy. It’s good when he drops by. But I shouldn’t make more of it than what it is (whatever it is, that is). But it sure is good when he’s here.

End Rant

Written at 9:01 p.m.