So. I’m feeling better with all of my butt problems and will go in to see Dr. Ashworth in the morning for a checkup. That will make it a week since he carved on me, and hopefully he’ll see good progress. I have learned my lesson, so I won’t talk anymore about that subject.
I got up early this morning and felt well enough to actually go out to Mooners Compost Plant and work at my job. I picked the Squirt up from over to Dr. Sam I. Am’s house on my way so she and I could spend some time together. Dixie is mostly with Streaker Jones anymore, but I don’t take it personally.
Dixie is getting older and it breaks my heart. She has been a loyal and valued friend for a very long time. She’s been grooming the Squirt to take her place and she’s got the little shitbird almost to the kick-out-the-nest stage. Actually, what Dixie said was, “Well Mooner, Squirt needs to learn how to fly blind, so I’m leaving her with you.”
I ignored the blind-leading-the-blind jab from my trusty dog. She deserves to live her last times doing what she wants, and she wants to work with Streaker Jones developing new spoor varieties.
When I walked up to Sammy’s place, Squirt was through the tiny doggie door and at my feet before I could knock.
“Buongiorno, Bwana Mooner, nie ist your day?” This greeting was made with her “sitting pretty”- on her haunches like a bunny rabbit, a smile on her face and tail going at 90 MPH. This is the pose Dixie has Squirt use during proper, polite conversation.
“I’m hunky dory Miss Squirt, how about you?”
She got a quizzical look to her face and asked, “Que significo eso ‘hunky dory”, Monsieur Mooner? Est ist Snufft Oink Pflushott, ode es inner Suahili?”
I had to think about all of this before I answered. Squirt had just asked a question in Spanish, German, Polish, Italian, common barnyard porcine, French and I think, Swahili.
“Well,” I began. “It’s not piggy talk nor Swahili either one. Hunky dory is an American slang term used to mean “OK”, or “all right”. You asked how my day was, and I told you it is OK, I’m doing all right.” I thought to add, “And before you get too deep into quizzing me about the origins of the phrase, ask Dixie because I don’t know.”
She wasn’t happy, but she walked to the car with me and let me buckle her in without too many more questions. The ride out to the plant was cheerful, and funny, as Squirt entertained me by reciting the Gettysburg Address. She can give the entire speech where she speaks every three words in a different language, changes languages with each three words, and she doesn’t use any language twice.
When I get more time, I’ll write it down for you. But for now, take my word that you’ll laugh your asses off with this one.
I drove the Squirt around the plant when we first got there so she could see everyone and spend some time watching the big machines. Squirt is fascinated with all the big yellow iron. We professionals call the loaders and other big machines yellow iron. I parked in my slot in front of the office, and Gnat got real pissy at me when I walked through the door.
“Can I help you sir?” she asked. And then, “Mr. Johnson only sees visitors with an appointment, and we don’t expect to be seeing him around here for a few more months.”
I guess it had been awhile since I was sitting to my desk.
“Un-wad your panties and tell me what you got for me this morning, Gnat. I feel like getting something done.”
“Well,” she started, “I’ve got quite a bit to do myself and I wasn’t planning on babysitting your whiny ass all day.”
My trusty assistant shuffled some papers around her desk and said, “Why don’t you start by going through the spring catalog for If You Can’t Smoke It, Wear It, LLC. Streaker Jones and Dixie are waiting on your thoughts before going to print. I looked through it and it all looks good, so you can do that in less than an hour.”
She hesitated a second, then added, “But don’t you dare get on the computer and start messing with my financial reports. Steve Midgett is expecting me to send them this afternoon and they’re almost finished.”
That catalog would be the spring line of hemp fabric clothing we make over to New Mexico, and Steve Midgett would be our trusty CPA accountant. The hemp, as a raw material, is a bi-product from one of Streaker Jones’ growing operations. When I get the chance, I’m going to logoize some of our hemp clothing and make it for sale here to the webber and let you buy it. Tee shirts and stuff.
What would you call it when you print your logo on something- logoize or logotize? Logorate maybe.
So, I’m going through the catalog and it is obvious that the clothing guys have done a great job again. I’m still working on the ultra-lightweight protective body armor for the military, my personal contribution to the spring line. We’re using hemp and bamboo fibers in a special weave that is proving to stop the bullets from most street guns.
Anyway, I stopped taking my pain meds since I was driving and I was starting to throb with pain. Now don’t get me wrong about this pain because it was nothing compared to what I had before Dr. Ashworth lanced me. If the pre-lancing pain was a 10, this is maybe a 0.036 on the pain meter.
But I guess that I’m a big baby when it comes to pain because I wishing I wasn’t driving. Speaking of driving, I had a surprise for Squirt. “Hey Squirt, you want to go drive a front end loader with me?”
Squirt had a stunned look on her face and said, “Voglio drive los loader die mich? Are you serious?”
“As serious as the open wound on my ass little lady. Let me change my absorbent pad and we’ll head out.
I already told you I’m using what I have always called a Kotex as both a cushion for my sore tushie, and also to soak up my oozings. Actually, I use an ecologically friendly brand. Cut them in half so I’m not wasteful. They slip and slide some but I’ve gotten used to having a cotton wad stuck up my butt.
The Squirt and I were driving the loader around the plant, she in my lap and me letting her touch controls to lift and dump and stuff. She was having a blast and I managed to do but minimal damage to Javier’s carefully-managed wind rows of compost.
Sammy called as we were finishing and asked if Squirt and I would mow her lawn. We said, “Sure,” and we parked the loader and told Gnat we were leaving.
Once back to Sam’s house, I changed into my gym shorts- loose, short billowy nylon things, and Squirt and I headed out to the garage. I unplugged the heavy duty electric mower and started mowing. Dr. Sam I. Am’s lot is big, maybe 200 feet wide at the street, and her street is very popular with the neighborhood’s walkers. It’s got light traffic and the entire half-mile is tree lined and shaded from the nasty summer sun.
When I mow, I like to make long runs across the lawn parallel with the street and starting at the street. Squirt likes to help by nipping at my ankles and getting in my way. The street was crowded with walkers and as I made the turn at the far end to come back, I spotted two of Sam’s neighbors walking towards me. They were waving their hands and pointing. When I reached the end of my pass, the two nice ladies were at the curb beside me.
One said to me, she says, “Afternoon Mr. Johnson. You dropped something back there and it looks like Squirt is going to retrieve it for you.”
The other nice lady says, “Isn’t Squirt just the sweetest little thing?”
“Yes,” I replied as I turned to see the Squirt prancing my way across the grass, a blood-stained white cotton wad in her mouth.
I thought to myself, I though, “Oh shit.”
Squirt raced the last ten feet and dropped the fallen feminine hygiene product to my feet.
“Oh my,” gasped one lady.
“Why that’s a bloody Kotex,” said the other. “What the hell…”
“I can explain, it’s not what you think,” I tried.
“Oh for God sakes Mooner Johnson. Have you no shame at all?”
I thought about that. “Well,” I started, “I think I might be full of shame, but I’d need to consult with Sammy.”
“Well Dr. Am-Johnson will certainly be consulted about this, Mooner. My God but you are inappropriate.” And she finished with, “For the life of me I don’t know what Samanta ever saw in you.”
And with that they huffed off.
I finished with the lawn and wondered about two things. First, I wondered just how pissed Sam was going to get about me dirty-wadding her neighbor ladies. She thinks I intentionally disrupt her life, but I know most everything is just bad circumstances. Like this particular circumstance.
The other thing I was chewing on was the whole, “Have you no shame?” dealie. What does that really mean? I mean, whatthefuck?
I know I can be ashamed of my actions, I know I can recognize shame in myself and others, I try not to but I know I sometimes shame others. Shame is not one of my goals, and I certainly don’t like it, but where does any of that fit in with the question.
And why isn’t the question, “Do you have shame?” Isn’t that a cleaner way to ask, or am I even getting that part wrong?
“Come on Squirt. Let’s go to the ranch and have some Carta Blanca beer. Let’s finish our day at the BBQ grill.”
“Yo soy love BBQ, Signore Mooner. Vamanos!”
So, I bid you, “Manana, ya’ll.”