Well, to be fair, it's not that hot, its only 92 and the humidity is causing the heat index to make it feel as if it is 97, but it's hot enough for me to bitch about it, especially since I was out in it. I went through two shirts because they became so sopped with sweat they started to squish when I moved.
I was not really doing anything hard, just trying to get a couple of fence sections up. Yesterday I had drove over to Lowes to pick up the posts and 3 fence sections, because my truck cannot really transport more than three at a time. The workers at lowes were annoying me, I asked the checkout girl how to get the fence sections, because I was not sure I was supposed to be hauling them out myself or what. She cheerfully informed me that a couple of 'guys' would load them up for me.
After I paid and loaded up my posts, I went off in search of the aforementioned 'guys'. Seeing none on the side of the building, I went back in and once again asked the checkout girl. This time she picked up the phone and called someone, something I do not understand why she did not do in the first place. So I stood outside and waited some more until a surly bald fellow in a lowes smock sauntered out and ask what I needed. I showed him my receipt and he eyeballed it for a moment and then made a little scrawl on it and handed it back to me. I peered at the scrawl but could not figure out what it was supposed to mean. It just looked like a squiggle.
I then asked the guy if I needed to move the truck somewhere for them to load up the sections, but he said no, I was fine. So I patiently waited outside and he slowly sauntered back inside and rounded up a friend and got my fence sections. When they finally brought them out to me, he mopped his bald head with a rag and said 'You know, you could have moved your truck over closer'. Ass.
I had planned on being up bright and early the next day to get some of the fence sections up before it got too hot, but naturally I stayed in my blissfully dark and air conditioned bedroom until noon. When I finally got around to walking outside it was like breathing into a wet hair dryer. I spent some time grunting and clearing out some weeds and branches and watermelon rinds that for some reason Alan has been throwing into the bushes. I got the first two sections up without too much problems, despite the fact the heat and humidity was causing the smell of the vast piles of dog shit the neighbors never bother to clean up to waft up my nostrils like some sort of dank fog. The dog itself was yapping and throwing itself against the fence in a furtive dumb-dog fury. After a while it wore itself out and flopped down in the dirt panting and giving me a vacant dumb-dog stare.
When it came time to put in the third post, my post digger thumped down on a root. It was a huge root, wider than my hand and crossing at such and angle that I could not put the post down on either side of it. I would have to chop it out. Disgusted I gave up and went back inside to my cool cool air conditioning.
Some folks were kind enough to invite me to a party last night, I showed up and ended up breaking the cardinal rule of not mixing your alcohol. I really had not meant to do that. It had started out a couple of hours before hand when I decided to try a couple more shots of some Dr Jeckle and Mr. Hyde liquor that I had mentioned before. I still cannot tell if I like the stuff. So I kept taking shots of it and mulling over the taste, trying to decide if it agreed with me or not. After a while I gave up and had a couple of beers that had been left over from the 4th. Then I decided a wee nip of Apple Jack would be tasty after the beers. Then I headed over to the party where I promptly had a couple more beers as well as some baileys and butterscotch liquor.
All this mixed with some tasty cake left me with a dull half-witted buzz and a midly queasy stomach. I decided to leave when some jackass next to me asked me how many years above 40 I was. I went home and crawled into bed and had an odd dream that I was still at the party, a dream that was particularly disquieting because I was in my normal sleep wear, a pair of underwear.
At least, I hope it was a dream.
2026 Update
Dialing the time furnace to September 4th, 2007, to watch Ed wrestle a fence, a root, and a bottle of Jekyll and Hyde.
Oh, sweaty days indeed. This is a lovely fossil. In 2007 you had to drive to Lowe's, interact with a human, decipher a squiggle, and wait for a surly bald fellow to load fence sections while he complained you hadn't parked closer. Now you'd order on an app, get a text, and have a loader summoned by computer; the argument with the guy is already preserved in a customer-service chatbot transcript. Your bedroom air conditioner is now an algorithmic smart thermostat, perhaps, but the strange limbo of trying to do one home-improvement project in oppressive heat remains eternal. The junk liquor cabinet—Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, Apple Jack, Baileys and butterscotch—belongs to an age before canned cocktails and hard seltzers, when mixing was a personal crime rather than a flavor portfolio. Dog poop smells haven't changed, but the neighbors might now post about it on a community app instead of just leaving it. I'm not sure that's progress. I am sure you were a fool to mix butterscotch with beer. The timeline keeps delivering.
“2007 Ed, after taking multiple shots of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde just to decide if you liked it, why did you think adding leftover Fourth of July beer, Apple Jack, Baileys, and butterscotch liquor was the logical next step in that evaluation?” — Beelzebubba the Third
2007 Ed: Beelzebubba, my friend, that implies there was logic involved. There wasn't. The Dr. Jekyll evaluation was a complete failure—I still couldn't tell if I liked the stuff, and I figured maybe more alcohol would help my palate sort it out. Which is stupid, but so is standing in 97-degree heat smelling the neighbor's dog crap all day. The leftover 4th beer was right there in the fridge, and Apple Jack sounded festive, and then the party had Baileys and butterscotch, and, well, I'm a dumbass. I blame the fence post root. That damn root made me lose my mind. Also cake. Sweet, sweet cake. I regret everything except leaving before some jackass asked me how old I was again. Next time I'll just drink water. Or maybe something else. Who knows. Take that, foul liquor.
