My Name is Mud

Or, not really, but I fucking LOVE that song. And mud was an everpresent substance in my weekend. You can call me Digger. Because that's what the hell I've been doing for the past two days. I'm a dirty, dirty girl. One who is going to have a heck of a deck party in a couple of weeks. Because my deck? Is going to be bigger than your deck. 'K? But don't get all jealous. You're invited.


See, most of the time, I wasn't really using the mac-daddy hole maker. That was Zube Boy's job. I'm kind of glad, too, because digging within inches of cable and telephone wires with a bad ass machine is not exactly my forte. I had the distinct privelage of using a shovel. And it was a rainy weekend. Whee! Rain is most certainly not conducive to being a tidy hole digger. As is evidenced by the condition of my footwear.


Oh, how I wish I could say that I got this dirty four-wheeling.


I might've even fallen on my ass in the mud. I'm so work dizzy, that I can't recall, for sure. You be the judge.


My father-in-law ROCKS SOCKS! And busts his ass. We are forever indebted to him, and he can come and visit us from Chicago ANY TIME! He commented to me that we'd better watch out for the grave-diggers union. They might be looking for us. He couldn't be more right. I suppose Zube Boy is supervising. He's good at that.


I was downloading a bunch of pictures and noticed a bit of a trend. Here is one of the rental property we just bought. We painted the outside. And I use the term "we" loosely, here.


Again with the working father-in-law. And the not so much working Zube Boy. As a matter of fact, is he yawning?

Hired help:


For Hire: Muscly type dudes with a penchant for swinging a shovel. In lieu of pay, a hefty amount PBRs will be provided throughout the project. As well as handy-dandy spots to place your beer.