“I can only think of my quest, I’ve not been satisfied being merely a tone, I’m making the choice to venture off”– Josh Groban.
Thanks Joshie baby.
I too am on a quest.
A seemingly endless quest for a building permit and I’m not satisfied being merely a tone either. Whatever a tone is.
So anyway. I spent two days swimming uphill in both directions, battling The County on my quest, my journey. Yesterday, after work I hauled ass down to The County wanting to get the CAMA permit going ’cause I’d read it took a minimum of 18 days to clear and I’m starting to get really worried about the timeline.
I arrived panting and panicked in the CAMA office with my files and drawings and spilled them all over the very nice CAMA woman’s desk and the very nice CAMA woman took one look and pointed one of her perfectly trimmed and painted nails at the plan and said-
You don’t need a CAMA permit, she said.
I fist bumped her ’cause Miss Carol doesn’t like me to be kissing other women and ran out into the rain to get my Soil Disturbance Permit- which I’m gonna need because I’m going to be disturbing a LOT of soil building a house.
The County is funny like that.
I sprinted over the courthouse lawn high-steppin’ the sprinklers and curbs and ran into the Health Department, sluicing rainwater and breathing hard. I pressed my face up to the bullet proof glass and asked where the Water Conservation Department was.
And the nice lady said pointing to her left- right there but they’re both gone for the day.
Both? As in TWO? I asked? And no one else can help me get the Soil Disturbance permit that’ll lead to the Septic Permit, that’ll lead to the Well Permit, that’ll lead to the bright shiny Building Permit??
No, she said.
Come back maybe tomorrow she said.
Twice a day, everyday, when I walk the boys, it’s not enough that they have to pee on every scent, on every plant, bush, rock, and mailbox, on every garbage can, and on every little kid standing still that we happen to come across on the same one mile loop we ALWAYS walk.
That ain’t near enough. They gotta top the yellow stream with the pee pee dance-its like it’s their end-zone celebration- their slamming the ball down and dancing off, hip-hoppin’ sideways to the roaring crowds.
This is how it goes-
They snuffle up something worth peeing on which is anything and everything and then they lift opposing legs and pee on each other and then, while they’re reveling in the warm gift they’ve given each other, they happily root?, or rut?
They both become furry little rototillers, churning up the grass and sand and dirt and hurling it back behind them in huge clumps.
It’d be cute if they did it once every now and again.
But they have to do it EVERY time they pee- which is like every ten feet?
I don’t get it- is it because they still have their dangly bits?
Ya know how some days you’re just off the charts chatty?
Shit’s clickin’ and you’re feelin’ like every little word droppin’ off your lips is some kinda pearl of wisdom that everyone needs and wants to hear and muse over?
The kinda shit that you think people would just want to roll over and over in their minds and hands and appreciate and rub smooth like pebbles or snowballs, making them better?
Yeah. So you continue on, giddily full of yourself, secure in the knowledge that others find you as entertaining as you do.
But then reality kicks in and you get a forearm bolt check to the chin and a follow up knee to the twins when Miss Carol says- you know what?
Why don’t you just shut the fuck up?
And you do.
‘Cause you’re good at that too, ’cause it’s something you learned when you were little.