Safari!

"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity..."

Oh, let's just face it.  It was most definitely the worst of times.

I'm sure Elayna will just laugh her face off when she hears this (but be sure to put it back on afterwards...):  It was worse than a port-a-potty.  Yes, I said WORSE.  No body has thought that possible.  But, then, they certainly could not have expected any more than I did what I endured yesterday.  Now are you intrigued? 

The day started out like any other day these days.  I was so tired when my alarm went off that I don't remember turning it off and going back to sleep, but somehow I ended up waking up at a quarter till nine anyhow.   After breakfast I called the owner of the pool and asked her if I needed to come in to do anything today.  She said yes, told me one thing to do, told me to call her when I was done, et cetera.  Why do we always say "etc" anyway?  It's not like writing "et cetera" takes that much longer.  Is it because it's not English?  Well, we don't abbreviate rendezvous, do we?  Well, anyhooness... 

I got to Candler and physically removed the cedar tree which had been chopped down and chopped up a bit.  There were lots of tiny pieces and then one very large, very heavy piece which I didn't get very far until I realized I was being a bit wimpy and not even trying to use all the strength in my back and legs.  After I changed that little mentality the tree moved fine, and I got it plenty out of the way of the dumpster so the garbage people could get to said dumpster and dump it.  

I felt like I wanted coffee, so mom stopped by and brought me a mocha latte from McDonalds (really, they're almost as good as Starbucks, and it's just the strangest thing!) which I drank while trying to scrub/chip/scrape/curse off caulking on the inside top of the pool.  I know this is starting to sound like another "Day in the Life" entry, but I promise it's not.  This is all leading up to something, really.  

The phone rang a couple of times, but the third time it was a certain very nice lady from the garbage-dumpster-company-people saying that they came by that morning and couldn't dump the trash because the cedar tree was in the way.  "Okay, well, we had someone take care of that this afternoon,"  I told her, not mentioning that I was that someone.  Then she mentioned that they also couldn't take the trash because there was "brush in the dumpster" which apparently "contaminates" the trash.  As if that's...?  It just doesn't make sense.  It should be the other way around.  And what else, pray tell, are we supposed to do with all that bramble we had to chop down?  Burn it?  No, the town of Cary doesn't allow bonfires and things like that.  So now what?  Stick it over somewhere and hope no one notices?  

I didn't say that to her.  I simply said, "Alright, thank you for calling, I'll have someone on the brush in the dumpster very soon."

Yes, I also failed to mention that "someone" would be...*gulp*...me.  

I had on my old tennis shoes, my favorite non-fancy pair of blue jeans, my Colonial Arts Camp shirt, and a pair of gardening gloves a size too small.  I wouldn't have felt so obligated to take it out, except that I put it all in there Monday.  Sure, I put it there because Mrs. C. said so.  But I still did it, and it needed to be done before matters got worse (more trash piled on top, et cetera).  So, I opened the top hatch, held my breath and began to grab one bag of trash at a time OUT of the dumpster.  When I was younger, dumpsters just scared me, because they were large and made loud thunder-like noises when anything came in contact with them.  As I got older, I just feared them because they were large germ-infested smelly, yucky, giant trash cans.  I avoid them at all costs, just like port-a-potties.  

At first I thought I was doing alright, till I lifted up one bag and it brushed up against my arm.  I felt something wet for a moment and then after that it felt like I had just been stung by a bee.  I looked on the bag, but there was no trace of said painful insect, so I started thinking I got some sort of chemical on me, and ran to the bathroom to wash my arm off.  Before I went out, I put on my jacket so my arm would be better protected, and when I got back out there I saw these little containers that look like the BJ's or Sam's Club version of vinegar containers, except on the front it said: "CAUTION: POISON."  Great, I thought, now I've done it.  I'm going to die from digging through a dumpster.  I just KNEW this would happen.

While I contemplated what to leave whom in my will, I examined the rest of the container.  Turns out it was Muriatic Acid...don't know what it could possibly be used for.  On the back it said that if it came in contact with the skin, to wash off with soap and water and to seek medical attention.  Well, I did the first part, but I didn't feel like calling all the fire trucks and ambulances up to come save me for nothing.  I thought, if it swells up or turns purple or something else unnatural, I'd call someone.  It never did, so I never did.  I got a bit more on me, between my sleeve and the garden glove.  I washed that off, too, and then went to find some long rubber gloves.

It got so that I had to reach in very far to get a good hold of any of the branches.  Eventually I was straddling the edge of the dumpster.  And, before I knew it...I was all the way inside.  Oh, it was horrible...never mind the humility.  It was hot, smelly, wet, disgusting, I was sweating, I felt like I couldn't get a breath of fresh air.  The branches seemed to go on and on.  I was just flinging them left and right...any way to get them out as fast as possible and thus get me out almost as quickly.  In the end, all that was left were several little leaves  that I couldn't possibly get all of.  I climbed out, closed the top and walked back into the pool house, feeling so repulsive that I almost felt like I was going to cry.  It was the WORSE experience, almost bad enough to make me say I will never complain about a port-a-potty again.  I called Mrs. C, told her I was taking off and then called my mom to come get me.  I just felt awful, and very sick to my stomach.  Who could have foreseen such an awful predicament?  Why didn't I, anyway?  It's so unfortunately like me to get stuck in such situations like that.  If you know what I mean (Allison, anyway), I found it sadly quite MacKenzie-ish (Amy, Katherine and I used to write stories about three sisters who always ended up in strange situations; Allison used to read them and say how much she liked them).  

I am NEVER doing that again.  And, yes, I took a LOOOOOONG shower before going to improv.

~Jessica