I know it's an old stereotype–the dumb-as-nails construction worker, but we've got a prime example working across the street this week. He can work that CAT like a thing of beauty, but as far as his regular, get-to-work vehicle he's a few lug-nuts short.
Who parks a pickup, not only in the middle of the street, but directly in front of someone else's mailbox? All day? Just close enough to the curb to prevent mail delivery, but far enough away to block an entire lane of traffic. Who does that? Yeah, the guy in the stained t-shirt driving the CAT.
I'm not going to mount the "RAM ME" sign on his tailgate I was tempted to make this morning, nor am I going to call a tow truck, but only because I'm hoping that not only is he going to smooth out the parking area/driveway across the street, but that he's also going to pave or rock it. For the last five years, every time the wind picks up (often) a significant portion of the fine sand/dirt/volcanic ash from over there ends up over here. It filters through the smallest cracks and settles all over everything in my house. Not to mention the wide open doors and windows. It comes through them in big, billowing clouds. Honestly, I'm surprised there is anything left to blow this way at all.
And while I'm being ill-tempered anyway, let me just complain a moment about energy-saving light bulbs. You know the kind–the ones you turn on, and then off, and back on, thinking you must have the wrong light switch because they take a few seconds to ignite, as it were. And then when they do come on they just dimly glow for fifteen minutes and by the time they've powered up enough to actually see, your desperate, dimly lit search for whatever it is you were fetching is already over.
And no, they don't last significantly longer than a standard light bulb. I don't believe it. Not enough to make up for the exponential cost. There is no way in hades my bathroom light has been on for 10,000 hours in the last two months since I changed it.
And what's the deal with the light in the main part of the daycare, anyway? I replaced the bulb every week for a month and now it won't come on at all. I'm thinking of going back to whale oil lamps or something equally reliable. Unfortunate we live so far from the ocean and it's probably illegal to burn blubber anyway. I'm sure the EPA has something prohibitive on the books.
Spent an hour massaging a thirteen-year-old girl's feet last night and painting her toenails ten different vibrant colors of the rainbow. I admit I was a bit skeptical. Pedicures, really? What kind of a youth activity is that? Nobody is going to show. But all seventeen girls showed up and parked themselves across from each other and went to work with gusto. Some of the young men in the neighborhood complained about the volume of the girls' chatter, but boo-hoo, I say. Plug your ears and sing a lull-a-bye to yourself in a dark corner. The girls were happy and bright and kind to each other and it was a great thing to see and even to hear.
Oh ho! They've moved the pickup truck.
But wait. They've replaced it with an eighteen wheeler.
And . . . the truck is now back, directly in front of the mailbox–he just moved his rig temporarily to let the 18 wheeler go by. Silly, optimistic me.