The difficulty of this weekend’s outdoor chores was compounded by constant rain and the resulting muck that sticks on the bottom of your boots and makes you four inches taller with the added mud. Thank God for muck boots.
It is like walking through quick sand. You dare not stop moving forward for fear you may get stuck. Pushing the wheelbarrow yesterday was worse than pushing it through 6 inches of snow. And the first load was mule shit soup, from the rain that had collected and mixed with the shit over the past few days. As if you dumped the contents from a porta potty in the wide open barrow and then pushed it slowly across the back space. Not a pretty look.
I literally had to scrape the muck from Claire’s hooves. It looked like she was wearing clown shoes. By the end of the day, they were back to being three sizes bigger. Luckily mules are sure-footed and strong legged.
And then I have to free the mud from Claire’s fur and mane, and that takes some effort. Although Claire loves to be brushed. And I enjoy that time together.
I hate rainy days. I must suffer from SAD (Seasonal Affective Disorder) because repetitive rainy days get to me. First it affects my sinuses, so I get those wonderful subtle pressure headaches that loom in the background and make me a little testy. I don’t like being that guy. He’s an asshole. Just ask Lisa. Then you get those subtle blues that take away the glow from the magic in your life. Hate that too.
And if I had a nickel for every time I’ve slipped and landed on my ass in the mud as I slide down the hill towards the barn at 2 am, I could quit my day job and just write full-time for a living.
But my time out here has taught me that these are temporary problems. I’ll live. I feel bed for those that have a chronic form of depression. But it doesn’t mean I can’t bitch about it. Better than therapy.
Well let’s hope that the rain desists and I can focus on just having the Monday blues, which always dissipate by Tuesday. That I can deal with.
But it’s time to do my rounds, so first the kitty cuddle – which always makes me smile – and then the dreadmill – which pisses me off so much that I forget to stay blue.
And then lawyering.
But you five, fine readers don’t need to follow my lead.
Stay focused on making Monday your bitch.
Goals stave off the blues.
But most of all, make today a great one.
“Muck boots,” Tommy? For generations (& well before we civilized the Bronx), we Boghoppers (as Bergen Catholic’s beloved chaplain, Fr. Adrian Piotrowski called us), have known those boots as “wellingtons” or “wellies.” How soon we forget…. 😉🙄😆☘️
Oh Petey, your ancestors are turning over in their graves at the thought of you suggesting a British appellation for my muck boots.
Tom…. you know that Wellington (of Waterloo fame) had sigificant Irish roots, don’t you?
I surrender, LOL. I will never out-think you Pete. It is just not possible.