Bon Voyage Sponge Bob

Dragging my sagging, but not withering (withering could be a good thing at my weight) carcass in with barley enough energy to drop my rags in the machine and take a long overdue shower, my mind raced. It was the only part of me up for the task. The water felt wonderful. I'm just a big fish... a big fat fish. I closed my eyes and prayed to the water god that I didn't pick up any ticks while out hunting.

Mentally checking off my to-do list and physically scrubbing a layer of flesh off kept me too occupied to answer the ringing telephone. It was just somebody calling on the Manure Spreader John had put an ad in the paper for. It sold to the first guy that was smart enough to realize he lived too far away to make it here before it would be sold. He called a friend 8 miles from us and had him run over and buy it. That's how fast things move around here once they hit the paper. Which takes me back to why I am so darn tired and stinky.

I spent the last two days detailing my car, preparing it for the inevitable sale. Finally coming to the realization that procrastination has allowed me to keep my precious `64 Fairlane a while longer, but it has also prohibited me from buying a car with the creature comforts I morn. And if I want to not die of heat prostration (no air conditioning) and second degree burns (no tinting on the windows) again...this August, I'd better get a move on. So I began the arduous task of peeling away all my Sponge Bob's from the vehicle and began restoring it to it's pristine, yet boring state, a four door with vinyl/fabric seats and rubber flooring. Neat and tidy, a blast from the past complete with plaid trunk liner and the smiley face ping-pong ball with purple troll hair topping off the manually adjustable antennae. I just couldn't do the big fuzzy dice thing. Too caliche'.

Today I waxed, and waxed, and waxed, until a neon orange flash was caught in my peripheral. It was Merlin's hunting collar, he was impatient. Usually by this time of the afternoon, we're down by the creek poking around after mushrooms, not in the garage. He began verbalizing. A low whiney rumble emanated from his doggy chest. He did his little run-to-whatever-he-wants-my-attention-on thing, in this case, the direction of the creek. I hit the remotes and closed up, grabbed my snake stick and a bucket and we moseyed. This time Freya joined us. She's been a little tied up with her recent litter of hair balls with eyes lately and has had to stay behind, sending her eldest two daughters with us in her stead.

The 'squiter's were thick and annoying, but so was my 'squiter repellant. We found no 'shrooms, but we did come back with a yellow golf ball and a couple beer cans. This time I couldn't even drag my legs of lead down to the May Apples like usual.

So, like most weekends, on Johns only day off work, I will be totally spent. My arms feel like jello and my legs are heavy and unresponsive, but my car is shiny, the dog is happy, and the cat got away from the kids for a few invigorating minutes. It's all good...unless I got a tick.
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4/17/2005 0:0 AM