Well, Farmgirl is back on the road, albeit perhaps for a short time.
Got a call last night from a good friend who happens to be a Stuporvisor for the old company, and he was in a bit of a bind. Sure thing, bud, I'll work a day or two and help you out.
Gratitude is always a good thing. A paycheck ain't nothing to sneeze at either.
Friends... your loving scribe may not be getting swivel-chair spread (ha, like I'd ever be that lucky!) from her newfound devotion to her writing and schoolwork, but she is woefully out of road-work shape. And color, although I got a good start on rectifying that little problem with the spiffy sunburn I got today.
I also ran into yet another of those people who know, and like, and remember me vividly.... and I have no freaking clue who they are. Maybe Farmmom can help me out on this one, T.L.M. company supervisor, long black hair, goatee. He mentioned you too, woman, so I'm halfway hoping you don't know who the heck he is either, at least then I'll know I'm not the only one.
Meanwhile, I had the "easy" job today (unfortunately not the easiest, I wasn't boss's little helper) in the middle. Got to stand by the hole they're digging and watch them play with their over sized Tonka toys.
The minute problem with this is that the hole they're digging is apparently smack on top of the "seepage" area for an old gas station. And by seepage, I mean massive tank failure.
We're talking black, slimy mud, that smells like old diesel and gas. You know, that stuff that granddad bought forty years ago and stuck in the barn "for later" and forgot about, until he wanted you to clean out said barn and the fifty gallon drums disintegrated as soon as you touched them.
They dug it up. They covered it over with fresh dirt. At this point I breathed a sigh of relief that was entirely too early. They dug it up again, played in it, made mud pies, turned it over, did a pagan rite that I'm pretty sure isn't legal to participate in in private in at least three states, let alone in broad daylight on a public highway in rural Colorado. In between each of these activities they'd stand around and look at it.
This, for those of you who aren't familiar with the road construction (and probably any other construction) biz, is what is known as "the FUBAR mind meld."
It is used when something is Effed Up Beyond All Recognition to the point that no one can even think of something to do that looks constructive. So they gather in groups and stare at the problem, willing it away.
Frankly when things like that happen outside of the area I have to run traffic in, I just erect a simple SEP field (linkage provided for the non-Hitchhikers in my readership) around it and continue with my day.
It would have worked too, if the odor hadn't been so danged obnoxious, jumping up and down and causing drivers to suddenly lose consciousness as they went past.
Farmgirl has a headache. And feet aches. And knee aches, and back aches, and sunburn aches. And she smells like a hooker on an abandoned oiler rig.
I'm off to shower, take some Advil, and collapse into my loving bed. Tomorrow, I'll probably be in jail for murdering my friend, who learned too well from Farmmom and asked me if I could work the rest of the week this morning when I was feeling good.
*grumble* Nine hour days means I can work through Friday before I get shut down on hours. Thankfully, they plan to cover the muck up again tomorrow, although I fear that leaving it exposed tonight means that we'll discover two-headed giraffes have invaded Holly tomorrow.
Either that or Zaphod Beeblebrox will show up to tell me that I'm an insufferable prat.
As long as he's holding a Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster that I can use to burn out my nose, I'm fine with that....