So I'm thinking our recent bout of sunshine is a mixed bag. It may be one of those things we miss disproportionately when it's gone and appreciate somewhat less when it's here.
This time of year, anyway, it introduces some unsavory players to my stage. My barnhouse is full of flies, I vered around three dead skunks on the road yesterday, and my floor is host to a roadmap of muddy pawprints. What's more, if I don't keep ahead of the items on this list, I'm gonna pay for it in varying degrees of -- shall we say, unpleasantness.
I'll elaborate. Let me first say that I love living in a barn (a prudent remark, given its current status: for sale). But the flies are not yet convinced, even after seventeen years of human habitation, that its dwellers are not bovine. If I had a tail to swish, this would be less of a problem, but as my lower spine seems to have completed its development, I'm stuck using a plastic swatter. Worse yet, if they happen to die before I do the honors, someone -- not naming names -- steps on them and makes them much harder to clean off the floor. The muddy pawprints? We gotta catch those scampering little paws before they paint the floors, freestyle form, interpretive-dance style; hence, a dingy rag hangs by the door and a damp mop is at the ready. Then my favorite: the skunks. They hold us hostage, alive, and deliver their pungent incense, dead. Best of all, they serve as a constant deterrent to letting our dogs outside. I'd almost rather clean up floor doodies than work feverishly to eradicate the stink from dog hide.
So right about now, you're wondering if this ol' broad is EVER happy. I am, truly, but two things: If I don't air my feelings, I don't have much in the way of writing material, and I'll grant you that it could be worse. We could live with, say, Tyrannosauri (is that the plural?) and bubonic plague.
And that's comforting.
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