I had a run in at the river this morning with the Plant of Evil. I don't know what it is, what it looks like or how it works its vile magic, but this is the second time that a vine has whipped across my bare skin and then, without any visible marks, made my arm sting like fire for the rest of the day. It's not poison ivy, oak or sumac - I'm well acquainted with them, thanks - but something completely different. It's all in how you look at it, I know: I suppose I should be glad it didn't just kill me and feast upon my flesh but between the plant of evil, the complete overgrownness of the trail and the abominable stench (the park smells like raw sewage these days) my morning dog runs are getting less fun than they once were. Or maybe I'm just in a shitty mood again.
I'm in a shitty mood because there's a dead rat in the garage. It's in the RatZapper, which is blinking away in the corner like a little beacon of necrophilia. Gah. Now I have to either summon up some guts or call one of my long suffering friends and beg him to come over and throw the dead rat away for me, which makes me feel like an idiot but does get rid of the corpse. I'm also going to have to go back to my original plan of cleaning the entire garage out, or, rather, having some guys from Craigslist pull everything out of there while I stand on top of the car and scream a lot. Young M, whose job this should be, is firmly entrenched in West Virginia with no plans to return soon, since we had a big fight on the phone over whether a certain .22 rifle should stay in West Virginia (my position) or should come to Asheville with him. Even though I can see, at the moment, the appeal of shooting rats, I'm still not budging on having firearms that shoot things other than paintballs, potatoes, plastic pigs or water in the house. Okay, I grant you I let a BB gun take up residence in the closet, but it doesn't work and thus doesn't count.
I went into the garage to find certain vital documents in the handily located filing cabinet. They weren't, of course, in there anyway. I have no idea where the hell my social security card or bankruptcy documents or, hell, much of anything is. No wonder I can't get a goddamn mortgage: I don't seem to actually exist. I did find, however, my misfiled 2003 taxes, old love letters, some Christmas cards that never got sent and a bunch of small notes from small children, including one that said, succinctly: "I'm sorry I called you a fat lazy pig but you were hogging the couch." Ah, the joys of little children! Those days of bliss!
I also found teeth. Lots of teeth. All of them, I guess. Apparently I was a good tooth fairy mom back in the day and I put all the tiny little teeth in ziplock bags (except for the one that fell into the bowl of Crispy Critters cereal and then got eaten by a 6 year old and subsequently vomiting A) and, in a burst of crazed efficiency, filed them. Now what? I guess I could make them into the worlds' grisliest charm bracelet or maybe I should keep them hidden away until the kids get married. They'd make an awesome presentation piece at the rehearsal dinner, don't you think?