A Story Contest and Some Back Pain

Well since my back was all like, ha ha I'm fucked up, I found I had some extra time to finally clean up my files instead of saving everything to the desktop and then being all I'll come back to this later. And by 'later' I meant 'never.' Which is when I discovered this.

So like, a long time ago, NPR had a Three Minute Fiction Contest looking for a story, under 600 words that was in the form of a voice mail. They said something about wanting the 'texture of voice' and 'spontaneity and intensity' or some shit. So I entered thinking “I write shit for the internet all the time! How hard could this be? I'll slap on a little drama, a little pathos, a little of that special Holly brand insanity and then BAM! This contest will be in the motherfucking bag.”

Then Scott pointed out that you can't curse on the radio. Not even a little bit.

Well fuck.

Anyway, I wrote down my story and submitted it. And NPR refused to acknowledge my greatness didn't pick my story. So I decided at this point, that they don't get to keep it anymore and I am free to put it up on my blog.

So here goes. This is my story, in 600 words or less in the form of a voice mail message:

Jen, unrequited.

Hey Jen, it's me. I was just calling to say congratulations. He sounds like a lot of fun. I guess I didn't think about what time it would be there. I was just hoping you were happy and I called to tell you that even though we don't talk much well, I'm still your friend. You know that right?

Right?

Okay.

Listen.

Do you remember the time that we found out the mall was unlocked and snuck inside and stole a can of whipped cream from the coffee island and then had to hide under the counter where the trash can was until the janitor came past and then we ran outside and ate it down by the water while watching the lights of the city? Do you?

Or the time that you left all your projects until the last week and then stayed up for almost two days straight and then you thought the masks on your wall were talking to you? And I had to take the last bus to your house and I wasn't allowed to leave or go to sleep because the masks, it turns out, weren't exactly your friends.

You know, I'll never understand why you kept those things.

Do you remember the time that we stayed up all night watching Star Trek and then at dawn you turned to me and told me that you thought Captain Kirk was the hottest Star Fleet captain in the whole world and then I dressed up as him for Halloween that year? Then you got really drunk and we left the party with a bottle and sat under that big oak tree at the end of the street in front of the church and watched the stars fade away and I was so close to kissing you then?

Do you?

Jen?

Okay, this is just like the time I snorted that sugar packet up my nose. Stupid and impulsive and useless and abrasive and it burned for like, two hours and I tasted sugar for two straight days. What I'm trying to say, is that maybe I shouldn't have called you.

I guess, I don't know, I guess what I really wanted to say was- is- goodbye.

Goodbye.

Jen.

Putting Newspaper in the Garden: The Agony

So a few days ago it was finally warm and dry enough to till the garden. So Scott got the tiller out and gave it a tune up and then it wouldn't start. So he spent most of the day fighting with it and fabricating parts and swearing and doing arcane things to the engine. Finally he gave up and dosed the thing in carburetor cleaner and then for some reason it started right up. As long as nobody touched the choke.

Well, since victory was his he went and tilled the garden. Which meant that the next morning I was up and about and determined to get the newspaper cover down as soon as possible before the weeds had a chance to recover. Otherwise the garden turns back into a meadow and gives us the finger.

And nobody wants that.

So I gathered all the tools I would need, and of course a fuck ton of newspaper, and put down exactly four sheets. I know it was four sheets because on the fifth sheet my back went GERNT. Or something of the sort.

Then I had an adventure standing back up. And by 'adventure' I mean 'I had thrown my back out somewhat.' And by 'somewhat' and I mean 'thank the dear sweet lord baby Jesus I can stand up.' So I drug myself into the house and told Scott he was on his own now.

So the rest of the day I tried to help out. Although it was the kind of help that does not involve bending down, or kneeling or being that helpful. It was mostly a dull ache, up until I moved the wrong way and then my back would be all, OMG WTF FUCK FUCK FUCK ARRRGGGHHHHH FUCK WHAT DID YOU DO? ADFKSDHSHKHDSFHFDSH! And I would be all like, I DON'T KNOW I'M SORRY I'M SORRY I'M SORRY!

So that was fun.

Then I tried to fix it by getting drunk, but that super didn't work at work at all ever because I realized that falling face first into bed means that once the alcohol wears off there will be white hot pokers in your spine for ever and ever. Then the next morning I learned that sleeping on your stomach is the worst position ever for back pain. And by morning I mean 1am because there ain't no sleeping after that shit.

Luckily after a few days of not going to work or making money or getting shit done I feel a lot better. Yesterday was the first day that I could walk around and feed the pets and so forth without involuntarily yelling a whole bunch of random words like HUAAGH and AUUUGGHH and HOOOOAAAAYY.

Which is a big improvement really.

Today my back is very stiff but at least I can type things again. Also I am super thankful that I only got stuck on the floor once. Ha ha it's the little things. Also you know what's kinda cold? The floor. Also kinda dirty, but I have been unable to vacuum it due to horrible pain. Except today I probably could of but fuck it I am on vacation.

A pain vacation.

Pros: Great excuse for trying to read the entire internet.

Cons: Excruciating pain.

Eh, all in all I wouldn't recommend it. Just an FYI there.

Moving the Wood Stove.

So yesterday we moved the second wood stove because there was snow. Okay, let me explain. No, there is too much, let me sum up.

So you remember that we put in a power pole near the house site so that we could get temporary power for installing the septic system and for running our cement mixer. Now, since the second older mobile home I have is for storage it doesn't really need power, we decided to run the power drop to the furnace shed right behind it, because that is a permanent structure that will become a garden shed since our old garden shed collapsed during a snow storm because nature is a bitch like that.

Which was a great plan, except for the fact that we still had the wood stove in the shed. Which we were going to have to move to the porch of the mobile home to await the day we can install it in the garage.

Well, how we got the stove over there was to sled it on a children's plastic sled. It worked once didn't it? It should work again right?

Ha ha haaa.

So we emptied everything we could have out of the stove and the shed, and then Scott got behind it and shoved while I lifted up on the front and then we pushed and shoved and cursed and fought the damn thing partway out the door. Then we found a sled, and then filled the bottom with wood and boards so that the stove would not just crush the sides of the sled out, and then we fought the thing onto the sled.

Then the fun begin.

What we had failed to take into account was that we were going uphill. And do you know what else was uphill?

If you guessed the giant pile of dirt we used to to put the electric pole in the ground, you would be right!

Preemptively I had a moment of foresight and had shoveled snow in front of the loose mound of dirt to try to make a ramp. Let me tell you something right now, trying to wrestle a giant metal wood stove that is precariously balanced on a sled that is filled with wood over a pile of dirt on the ground uphill is like trying to shove a dead baby elephant up a parking garage ramp.

And really, it's just about as bizarre.

Once we hit that dirt pile the sled came to a dead stop. We tried pushing and lifting on the front of the sled. We tried lifting the stove and pushing it. We tried switching places. We tired accusing each other of doing it wrong.* Finally Scott used his brain power and we turned the stove ninety to the sled, so that it was hanging off each side like whoa, tied a stronger rope to the front of the sled and tried again.

Have you ever watched one of those movies or read one of those books about the old timey arctic expeditions where the great ships would get stuck in the ice and then have to wait for the summer to become free again? You know the part where the ice begins to break up and shift and then the cold water is visible until at last one day the ship gives a great shuddering heave and breaks free of the ice and the crew rejoices because they are at last free of it?

It was like that. Only with a wood stove.

Once we felt it moving we pushed and pulled like mad until at last we had heaved and pushed and fought the dame thing up that goddamned motherfucking hill until at last we were on the level and could glide up to the door where we stopped and panted like winded racehorses.

I am also fairly sure that the neighbors think we are really, really insane now.

So then it was a simple matter of shoving it through the doorway and into it's storage spot. I would like to say that we high fived for victory then, but at that point I realized that it hurt to breathe in and that it felt like someone was punching me repeatedly between the shoulder blades. So we crawled back to the house and drank tea.

Victory tea.

*This is a necessity in any project.

Storm, and Hangover Aftermath.

You know what sucks? Wrestling propane tanks into the back of a truck. You know what really sucks? Wrestling propane tanks into the back of a truck with a hangover.

So we had figured we had better, you know, refill our propane tanks before they run out, so we can continue to enjoy things like, heat and the ability to cook. Using a handcart we wheeled the tanks to the truck which would have gone better had the wheels not been deflating. Which of course we couldn't fix because we didn't have any power.

Ha ha. Fun.

After heaving the tanks into the truck and swearing and strapping them down we loaded up our empty gas cans and headed for town. Of course town, being in the valley had no snow and all the power ever. Assholes. So we get the feed store which also sells propane because small town here people and tell them we need to fill our tanks.

And then they are all, those tanks look old. And then I'm all yeah they probably are. And they are all like, well if they are over twelve years old we can't fill legally fill them. And then they're all like, have you checked the date on the tanks? An I'm all like there's a date on it? And then he went ahead and climbed up in the back of our truck and was all yes they do. An I'm all like okay what does it say?

An he's all 1954. And 1975.

Well, fuck.

So then I ended up buying new tanks. Let's just say for what that cost I could have bought another PS3. And some games. So me and Scott wouldn't have to share even though he doesn't play video games at all. So I could have hypothetically bought the dog a PS3.

Hypothetically.

Anywho, we get them filled up. And I'm standing around listening to the filler guy talk about how he's not feeling well while my brain is trying to dry up and crawl out of my skull because hangovers suck and there should be a limit on how many vodka coco's I should be allowed to drink in one night. But there's not.

Unfortunately I also felt kinda bad for Mr. Propane Filler Guy because he had been outside all of yesterday too, which meant that I helped load the tanks into the my truck while my gray matter yelled stuff like “FUCK YOU MOTHERFUCKER” at me.

Then we had to drive the four tanks home and unload them and sled them to where they were going because the hand truck had given up on life and was laying face down in the bed of truck. Which is really what I felt like doing at the time. Except replace 'truck bed' with 'floor.'

Then we went inside and moped around for the rest of the day while while wishing the power would come back on. Which it didn't because that would have made my life easier and life is dick like that.

Motherfucking life ass motherfuckers.

 

Want more sadness Storm Tales? Here's Day 5.

Confused? Here's Day 1 of Power Outage Fun Time.

The retaining wall. Oh god the retaining wall.

Either I have gotten out of shape, or I have forgotten just how much pain I can be in after moving giant ass rocks all day.

We rebuilt a whole bunch of it today.

What we did was pull rocks off the top and then place them at the bottom to form a new bottom layer which we slowly integrated back up into the existing wall. I had, in a fit of planning collected rocks to be used in the rebuild. I had spent four fucking days doing nothing but collecting rock. I thought we would have enough.

We didn't.

It was handy to have them all there, as we had already moved them to the site, but there was still a lot of cursing and pain and sadness.

About halfway through the day I was alternately making a sort of whimpering sound that was also mixed with the grunt growl that people make when they are moving something heavy.

I'm pretty sure I sounded like a killer whale giving birth.

It was also as humid as the inside of a sauna. A sauna that is also filled with insects that will bite me even though I have two different kinds of bug spray on and really WTF nature?

Also at one point during this epic battle of wills between me and a slope I was ferrying rocks around in my tank top.

I'll explain.

We needed some smaller rocks, but of course we had already used up all of the one's around the wall, so I went off in search of more rocks. Except now the meadows have sprang up so I ended up having to go farther and farther into the woods for rocks and then of course I can only carry so many at a time. So I just flipped my tank top bottom over to make a sort of pouch and shoved rocks in there because none of the buckets were anywhere near where I was working. As in I would have had to have walked back down the driveway, through the yard, past the rabbit hutches and past the chicken coup to get one.

Of course I think I'm out a tank top now.

Anyway it was 'the terrible picking up the heavy rocks but now I have to throw them down to bottom of the retaining wall with out falling over the edge and dieing' edition.

So now I feel like my body has been pummeled and I find myself kinda zoning out while I am looking at the screen.

Wha?

Oh yeah. The blog.

I think I should just go to bed now.

Zzzzzzzzzzz.

Digging Fence Post Holes is Pure Agony.

So yesterday we had been working on fencing in the rest of the garden. For those of you who have ever fenced anything before, you know our terrible, terrible pain. Now on the first day Scott laid out where he wanted each hole to go in bright yellow florescent paint, which was by far the easiest and most satisfying step. Because the next step was digging the motherfucking holes.

You know, the holes that were filled with motherfucking rocks.

If you remember back to my previous post, I talked about various methods of rock removal, pulling the rock out, bashing the rock apart, or moving the whole goddamned hole. Well the best thing about this is that we did not have to move any goddamned holes. Which by that I mean that we had to cut one corner four inches shorter because that rock was not going anywhere. At all.

I should also take this time to point out that Scott hurt his wrist so I was doing most of the heavy work. And also my gloves disintegrated at some point in this process meaning my hands are covered in angry red blisters that hate my guts for bringing them into this world.

At lunch I put New Skin Liquid Bandage on my hands like it was going out of style because at that point I had found another pair of gloves and updated my status to we might finish this task today. On a side note, have you ever used New Skin Liquid Bandage before? It works pretty good, but don't take that as an endorsement because it hurts like holy hell to put it on. If you read the bottle it says 'may sting' on it in tiny, tiny print.

That is a lie.

Okay. You know that scene in Lord of the Rings Return of the King where Gollum bites Frodo's hand and gets the ring, only to topple into the volcano and burn to death while destroying the ring in the process? Yeah, it feels like that, only localized to one area. I had no need to use New Skin for a few years, so I kinda forgot applying it was like a practice drill for a bunch of bee stings.

But I digress.

Anyhow, it pretty much took us an entire day to dig eleven holes that were shoulder length deep. And also I fucked up my back because girls are not made to lift a heavy ass metal pry bar up and smash it down all day. After the first hole, which always goes well to lure us into a false sense of security, it was a motherfucking triathlon of rock smashing. There was the hole that was filled with huge rocks all stacked on top of each other so to get one you had to get them all, the hole where the whole bottom was one solid rock and we took turns smashing through it,* and the hole filled with the giant rock that we just had to bail on four inches early because all we were making was sparks.

It was one of those days where you stagger back inside and look at the clock and it's like seven and you stare at it stupidly because how can it be so late when you only accomplished one thing?

Yeah. It was one of those days.

One of those motherfucking days.

*I'm not fucking kidding here. We reduced that rock to powder and rock chips and pulled it up piece by tiny piece. That rock was a survivor is what I am saying.