Toil of the Soil

It always amazes me that as soon as the sun lingers a little longer in the sky and frost turns to dew, me and my fellow suburbanites head for the hardware store for endless buckets of multicolored mulch. Oddly for such a truly ‘green’ product made up of chunks of recycled tree branches, bark, and stumps, the stuff seems to be seen in all colors but GREEN? Who knows, maybe I lichen the look of a mold covered flower bed to match my rotting roof and anyway what’s so wrong with pairing a little red n’ green for a Springtime Christmas scene?

I wonder if this annual obscene dirt-dance offends those of us who struggle for a meal or an occasional hosing off of their darkest nooks and crookiest of crannies? After all vast vats of cash are routinely exchanged in May so my ‘burb-bound milky-skinned ilk can don crisp pairs of button-down blues, farmer tans, and make handsome houses of ‘SILT-repute’. It bothers me that I’m dumb enough also to join-in and waste gas by hauling around big brown bags of musty-have mulches, simply to cover up my slightly ‘less-brown’ mounds of soil in the planters and gulches.

Since my yard’s dandelion and crabgrass needs are always satisfied and not pressing, it’s unclear why society has scorn for the already in-place brown mud and dust made of nature’s fav top-dressing. Most anything already grows in the stuff and its use results in less of a stress-y mess and all the loss from expensive mass distribution and compost-y cost.  I guess there’s good reason, like shy deer won’t try our former glory-plant’s gnawed-off leftover stalk, without the scent of fresh mulched earth nearby with ‘choco’ dye on the top.  

But never fear there is an upside to all of this mind-numbing mulching since my neighbors actually have new-found respect for me and are amazed that I can take on such a big job quickly without outside labor. While I appreciate the kudo-reaping and end results of my solo grounds-keeping, it’s actually no big deal to my better half who could do just the same alone in my stead. Yes the wife and I have similar down-to-earth independent natures and are always up for gritty challenges so she'll not be impressed . . .  since in many times past, she has encouraged me to soil myself fast!

Instructions Not Included

After un-boxing  a common light fixture from the hardware store, I noticed that it came with a small folded booklet full of warnings and ‘instructions’ for  safe usage. To be sure I’m no genius but I am fairly confident, like most folks with a feeble lizard brain, I already know how to turn a single switch on and off to light up my life. What amused me most was that nowhere in the instructions did they tell me how to actually screw the thing in or what to screw it in to, so I wondered around all day holding the unlit bulb over my head until I figured it out.

This got me thinking about the rules of writing RULES for apparently the lowest common dementia denominators of society. If these mental giants are inherently SO confused, is it likely they’ll understand that it’s ok to stick Pop Tarts in the toaster hole, but as a slot to stash your wallet or dry those freshly manicured nails – NOT. Do we now have to rename and explain things like ‘deadbolts’ , ‘hangers’, and ‘curtains’  so our nation’s ‘soft-topped’ population doesn’t mistake common household items with terms of death?

For most guys even regular toilets require a lot of hand-holding to learn to use properly but none of the ones around this dump came with instructions or pictorial guide booklets to study. I all but avoid those new fancy dual flush eco-toilets since I fear making complex water to mass ratio math decisions in a place that used to be called the ‘RESTroom’. Maybe I need a licensed plumber to crack the code and show me what might happen if I push BOTH the number 1 (liquids) and number 2 (solids) buttons simultaneously – (JELLO?).

If instruction pamphlets are so important for mundane things then why didn’t I get an encyclopedia-sized set of caveats, care, and conditions for use with a complex conundrum like when my kid was delivered? Even after over two decades of experience, I still don’t know how she operates exactly or what buttons to push to get her to stop working and do what I want. Maybe the secret is I should master the simple but still important instruction-less stuff first, then work my way up to see the ‘heir in my way’? Admittedly I have a lot of work ahead because I’m still not sure if the toilet paper is supposed to be mounted flap out or flap in – or maybe I should just shinny up to the roll and throw ‘caution to the spin’!

Tireless Street Sweepers

When the car passes its last gasps where even bacon grease and a leash won’t motivate my wagon’s wheels to move I sometimes have to venture TIRElessly out on foot for repairs. Since small smart-phones are not yet Yeti-friendly and overt stimulation from music or talk-radio overloads my beanie baby brain, I slog silently with little but the fat on my pratt to keep me company. So it’s no surprise that whenever I travel trike-less, I choose random roadside refuse to ‘count’ and keep my gnat-sized noodle from focusing on both the corns on my feet and the ones stuck in my teeth. 

Since counting over ten is not my strong suit I avoid all common twigs, rocks, and gutted gutter road-kill along my chosen boot route. Instead I have a knack for tracking trash or other stand-out street-leavings which are easy to spy with my bloodshot eyes and can dutifully tally fast with or without an abacus. If I can snag a bag or un-holey rag I will collect the parkway prizes to shuttle back to our hovel but usually the neighbors complain that our dump already has enough yard art at our disposal.

In many places that I have lived, soda cans and rum bottles are ordinarily good ‘objet d’ cART’ for my way of highway ciphering and, if I am REALLY lucky, an occasional drop of hobo-hydration. However, local recycling rules near me now put bounties on such items making them slim-lickins during my current treks and frequent sole searching. Too bad I can’t earn some clean cold cash for dirty hot butts since lip-flicked cigarettes along with their flat-mashed cello packs are probably the most rampant refuse to cross my tracks and fill my sacks.  

My record trash total for a 3 mile hike to retrieve my wheels is forty-five little mini-bar sized liquor bottles left curbside full of air and an occasional inquisitive ant. Clearly the walking dead near here must have a lot of frequent flyer miles to choose those tiny liquor hits over the better valued quarts of Thunderbird offered up at our local 7-11. In fact our bums are so well off you’d think they’d have the decency to leave a bottle drop for posterity or at least thirsty street sweepers like myself.  I have troubles to drown too you know since I’m disheartened by frequent car repairs and past lapses in my synapses from a lifetime of nutrition-less Wonder bread and un-recycled abuse of addictive Diet Coke. 

Oldster Fashion NO NO's

Most post mid-life mugs like myself would like to stay as healthy, young, and contemporarily relevant for as long as possible despite our advancing age. The problem is of course that the wrinkles, graying follicles, and the fact that we think younger people do everything WRONG exposes our true chronological age. Sure we’re never gonna’ be young again so it’s probably time to find a hobby like grave digging or worm farming which can be constructively applied before we put our lame ‘HurryCanes’ down for the final time.

So I’m tolerant of all kinds of old folks and their weirdo habits to hang on to youth (no judgment, just an honest observation) because how fun would it be to stand in line at the DMV if every dried prune dressed and behaved just like me? Hey just because my hair has DePARTED faster than Moses did to the Red Sea doesn’t mean I have become a card-carrying AARP geezer-believer yet. I understand the primal urge to feel like your soft tail still belongs on a 6 speed Harley even though these days as a REAL fat boy you’ve never piloted anything more powerful than a 2 speed massage recliner. 

That’s why I might give the geezers a pass with the haughty Van Dyke beards encircling their ‘Pepto-portals’  as a reminder of where to target food instead of their feet. I try too to ignore ripe-type seniors wearing ridiculous designer slim-fit jeans over cowboy boots scootin’ boogies, or whatever else is trapped in their  brightly-colored bandanas. Occasionally, despite an involuntary cringe, I’ll even choke down that tan-in-a-can golden oldie who sports a spread eagled collared shirt, flaunting his flossy fur and an oversized pierced cauliflower ear. 

Despite all that tolerance and my considerable effort to turn a varicose-veined pink-cheek to oldsters trying to delay the inevitable, society must help me put an absolute stop to the ultimate dried-up dude fashion faux pas. No more ignoring this festering and flagrant abuse by the creaky who refuse to act their own age and face the final swan song stage of yawing youth and meet their musty destiny with gusto and dignity . We must stand together to clip, cut, and blow - don’t pass GO, until the aged and gray cleave off that HATED, greasy-weaved foot-long pony today and donate it to balding and less fortunate hairless RATS!

One BAD egg

Being a free range chicken at heart especially whenever I see scary movies has made me an EGG-spert of sorts on all things egg. Except for my enduring essence of sulfur I think I have inherited most of my ‘egg-centric’ traits from my parents who meet, greet, and eat the ovoids nearly every day. Yes, you can boil ‘em, fry ‘em, or tie dye ‘em because unless they’re still warm from a fresh squeezing, you can bet I will try ‘em.

Like my city-bred attention span, I like eggs best when scrambled except I prefer the farm-raised versions extra large and on buttered toast points any time of day. Surprisingly though my wife is not a ‘egg-ok’ with chicken droppings sold by the carton and parked in ROES in the fridge.  The egg-hater knows we need ‘em for baking cakes and practical yolks on neighbors with high cholesterol but otherwise never makes ‘vittle’ dinner plans with chicken littles in pans. 

Yes, in my wife’s hard-boiled world, colorless n’ boring un-hatched eggs should be for breakfast exclusively and their bald tops need never see our fingerprinty glass table top after daybreak. Even then, the white-headed plain jane under-studies might only get their big break after all the cold limp cereal, pasty oatmeal, and stale bread ends have been exhausted as superior forms of sunrise sustenance. On rare occasions I can spur the spouse to sup up some embryos sunny side up, only if they go under cover as an abstract Picasso palette, with a gaudy free-flowing mix of yellow, gory splotches of red catsup, and a liberal dusting of black cracked pepper.

Ironically on a recent grocery run to restock a dozen of the hard-shelled and edible white cargo, the Crayola egg-eater paused a wee longer than normal to check for ‘cracks’ on the backs of our styro-packed inhabitants. As she deposited the EXACT same questionable carton-coop gingerly into our basket, it was clear that she had witnessed something that had caused pause for considerable thought. When queried as to her concern my wife replied, ‘ Oh it’s nothing,  just ONE egg is a bit ‘browner’ than the rest so I thought it might be BAD!”