It happened to me yesterday. My German cousins call it Schadenfreude. It occurs when another person's misfortune elicits pleasure in you because now feel better about your own miserable life, or something like that. I may have spruced up the meaning a bit. No exact English translation exists. That’s not to say that it doesn’t apply to Americans. It did to me

It happened this way.

We have his house, you know, in the pleasant town of Lonoke, AR. We bought it when we cared for B’s mother, The Lady Hazel Cole, and we spend a lot of time there. Well, it has a lawn sprinkler system and each spring I have it turned on and checked over. Since climate change, which doesn’t exist, and weather, which doesn’t change, has designated Arkansas for rain-forest status, the one thing our lawn hasn’t needed in a while is water. But, out of habit, I arranged for our maintenance company to come anyway.

Now it gets juicy, very juicy. I decided to empty the accumulated water from the system’s water meter box, that non-existent climate change has kept flooded for the last year. I figured that I could appear “handy” if I went ahead and dipped out the water. I attired myself properly and waited until the long-legged blond who’s been working on the house across the street and was wearing a belt fashioned into a pair of shorts could see me.

Did I mention that it was still muddy around the meter box? Did I mention my invalid status, still recovering from knee surgery and deserving of succor, not sarcasm or Schadenfreude? Did I mention that I have purchased one of those little green things that you see advertised that allow you to kneel in comfort? Did I mention that I had donned knee pads to further protect my damaged body? Did I …, oh yes, I did mention that it was muddy at the work site.

All went well. I dipped and dipped until all the workable parts of the meter box appeared. The blond was busy in the yard across the street, pretending not to see me. At that moment, I chose to rise like a conquering hero and gaze proudly at my handiwork.

Did I mention that the little green thing isn’t stable in the mud? I found that to be the case when I attempted to rise. The thing tipped. My cell phone that I had carefully deposited on it so the thing wouldn’t fall in the water sailed through the air and I sailed after it. I found myself sprawled in the mud face down, attempting, it seems, the breast stroke.

I heard laughter.

The second attempt ended as the first. I heard more laughter.

Finally, on the fourth try, I made it to my feet and fished my cell phone from three inches of mud. I made my way around the house to the nearest water house, covered in filth.

Ah, help. The only person in the vicinity with whom I was intimately acquainted enough to ask for love and understanding came around the corner. I immediately sought help, all I could get. After 46 years, it wasn’t an “until death us do part” moment but it sure was a time or marital support. Alas, she was seized with such a paroxysm of laughter, non-stopping guffaws, “Dr. Pepper out the nose” hillarity, and giggling that I had to send her away.

Left to tend to myself. I was clean and freshly clothed when the maintenance guy came. The affair had taken on a humorous tone by then, so I told him about it. He smiled. “Oh,” he said, “next time, I have a pump to get the water out of the meter box.”

When I turned to walk away, I’ll swear I heard him giggle.

Love thy brother as thyself.
I think someone said that.

Climate data source: Fox "news."

Morning Thoughts: February 25, 2018

It’s always something. The monsoons lifted, but the “mudsoon" lingers. Outside, there is a two-inch thick coating of claymore mud. More on the kitchen floor. The spiders have tracked it up the walls creating limericks along the way. Here’s one:

There was a Black-Widow named Lexis,

Who hooked up with a Recluse from Texas,

She showed him some fun,

But when they were done,

She feasted on his solar plexus.

Around the world:

On Facebook, there’s muddy reasoning.

In Washington, there’s muddy talk.

From Hollywood, there are only muddy films.

The top brass in the military is bragging about their doctrine, developed in the 1970s, of only invading dry countries. “Mud is for fools and farmers,” they say.

I heard a TV evangelist say that “there is no mud in Heaven,” but how in the hell would he ever know?

Even the TV commercials are muddy now. I don’t even know what they are promoting.

Meanwhile, back at the farm, It’s a mud-prone world.

 We have to change the HVAC mud-filter daily.

I tried to go for a walk but found that, when I took a breath, I exhaled a fine mist of mud.

They had to close the barber and beauty shops in town. Hair was so muddy it ruined the scissors.

Birds can’t fly for the caked-on mud. They are disguising themselves as dog-turds to fool the cats.

The catfish have made the pond bank into a mud-slide. They are the only ones having fun.

If it will only dry up a bit, I have to search for our vehicles. They all slid away to parts unknown.

When they fired up the church organ this morning, only wads of mud shaped like notes came out.

And speaking of churches in the community, the favorite hymn of the day seems to be, "When the Mud is Dry up Yonder, I'll Be There."

Church sign down the road reads, “Don’t build your house on shifting mud.”

The missionaries are using Skype.

Elsewhere:

Walmart is running a special on mud-pie shells.

This morning, I saw a group of nightcrawlers building a mud-raft out of bamboo shoots.

Later, I saw a periscope moving through the mud. It was the postman.

A peddler just came by selling mud-filters for baby bottles.

  

The mud-mist is so thick that the 18-wheelers on I-40 are slowed to 93-miles per hour.

And I’m working on an essay entitled, “Mud As A Metaphor – How Life’s Most Worthless Things Stick To Your Shoes the Longest.”

Joggers beware!