Rocks Do Not Rock

Rocks Do Not Rock

Geo woke up on Father's Day at 9 or so, to do some work in the backyard. Around one, when my aunt was able to watch the girls, I went outside to help him. There was a 4 foot tall, 7-foot wide pile of rocks that needed to be rounded up for disposal. Only we didn't have a wheelbarrow. And the larger rocks needed to be broken up into small pieces per some random disposal rule. Only we didn't have a sledgehammer. And it was 87 degrees out, with 57% humidity. And there are a fuckload of mosquitos in our backyard.

Geo hated it but I didn't mind so much (I wasn't out there as long as he was though). I hate working out because jumping around on my living room carpet feels unproductive to me (though my waistline disagrees). But carrying rocks is something that burns calories and works towards a goal that can actually be seen. Geo was in a pretty good mood though for someone who had been out there all day. At one point he burst into spontaneous song. There's this show on Nick Jr. called the Wonder Petsand in the show, a duckling, turtle and hamster rescue animals in need. So Geo started singing one of their songs but screwed it up... "A baby penguin, stuffed in an iceberg, next to a unicorn, we have to help it.." As you can imagine, that's not what they say.

The point is, our special Father's Day activity was Geo doing manual labor for 6 hours and me loading up, carrying and unloading 50 buckets of heavy ass rocks. Yeah I counted. He wanted me to go inside because it "bothers him to see his wife doing manual labor" but I reiterated that I wasn't weak or girly and that I wasn't going to get hurt. Of course, ten minutes later I got my finger stuck in the gate. And I have a purple bruise on my forearm the size of a potato. Oh well.

Geo: So what are we doing for Father's Day.
Me: You mean besides this fun activity?
Geo: Yeah.
Me: Well, I'm giving you a blow job. Okay just kidding. Those are for normal days not only holidays.

*50 fricken buckets of rocks later*

Me: This was your gift. Happy Father's Day.
Geo: Dude it was the best gift ever.

To get the rocks into the bucket, I had to pick them up with my gloved hands. After 20 or so buckets, I started seeing dried little feathers and knew that my time was coming. The law of averages dictates that the more buckets I filled, the higher the likelihood that eventually I would see something gross. And as the bucket count got higher, my apprehension grew, especially when I got to the large rocks on the bottom. Would it be a dead possum? A severed finger? An eyeball? A nest of those disgusting brown insects that look like the thing they pulled from Neo's stomach in The Matrix (I really hate those)? But I managed to get through all 50 buckets without seeing anything grosser than a pile of earthworms. WOOT!

The next day however, the law of averages caught up with me. You can run but you can't hide. As I bent to pick up a gum wrapper, right next to my hand was not one but two dried dead birds. Bleeehhh. The one that was still a little juicy I kicked under the car so I wouldn't have to pick it up. The second one though was dried sufficiently that it wasn't that gross so I swept it into the dustpan then deposited it into the trashcan. And just like that *poof* the backyard is clean. Mostly due to Geo though.