It's been a long weekend. It should have made me happy but it didn't. Where to begin?
It has been a long standing opinion of mine that little old men who do yard work should have a state sponsored pension plan. If you've ever had the services of one you'll find out they can do everything. Yard work, painting, plumbing, drywall....the list just goes on and on. And they're willing to it all for cheap! I feel bad when they say "pay me what you think it's worth" because I can't afford what it's worth.
Saturday afternoon this guy shows up at my house. When I was out in the yard earlier in the week he'd walked by and offered to cut the grass, so I said holla back at me later, not really expecting anything. I mean how often does an off-hand comment comeback to bite you in the ass?
He shows up.
So we work out a deal where he cuts the grass for like $30, and then cleans out the branches and leaves by the side of my house (which is still pretty fucked up from when I'd first moved in) for like another $70. Does a damn good job.
It turns out Starz had all three Pirates of the Caribbean movies on all day Saturday and Sunday...and still haven't seen them all the way through. I messed up and watched the first one and was, I'm ashamed to say, hooked. Crisp writing and dialog and Captain Jack Sparrow. I'm sorry, did I get on the bandwagon late?
Then my partner called and I ran up to this cookout that was chock full. It's odd when you go out and things that would in the past have gotten you...excited... are now, less than exciting. My mind is still not right.
Then Sunday morning me and my new yard man go over and clean out Sporty's dog run that I been promising to clean out for three weeks now. The little fenced in cube looks like a jungle, with poison ivy and hanging branches and trees than have grown into the fence. He knocks out what looks like six hours work in two. Barely broke a sweat. I suddenly felt very puny. The times I've missed the gym were suddenly very bad. The pile of brush must have been twenty feet on the sidewalk five feet high.
Then I find out and old friend is having a cookout, roll over there to watch the game and run into the HBCU reminder squad, which goes over the basic concepts and highlights of the old alma mater and continually reaches the conclusion that we're all still surprised anyone actually ever graduates. Then when the 25th dude showed up and it was still only the original 8 girls, I raised up stakes and went home. Hard leg festivals are not my thing.
It looks like it might be starting again. I'm getting too old for this shit. I got used to liking it when...well, those new days seem to be fading just as fast. Old is all I got. But lately everything seems to be losing it's flavor.
Barkeep...I dunno. Something.