I get sad and tired and cranky when it's so dark and damp for so long. There's a reason that I was so disturbed by that one Ray Bradbury story that I read in 4th grade. (And will never read again.)
In our brief period like this on Saturday afternoon, everyone in my neighborhood took advantage of the "nice" weather to take care of yard work. I was no different, as the grass in our patch had reached ridiculous heights. Well, I was a little different. We have an electric mower, but it is kept in the basement, and I can't lift it up the stairs by myself. So I used the little manual push mower. And as the grass was thick and high and damp . . . well, results were not so good. In fact, I massacred the lawn. At the end of the ordeal, most of it was shorter, anyway. But there were patches that were shorter than others. Lots of single rogue weeds stuck up above the rest. I didn't get any edging done. It was embarrassing- only marginally less than if I hadn't mowed at all, really. My dad would be ashamed. And I ended up sore in interesting new ways. Like, I can't say I've ever paid attention to the area along the outside of my hand, between my wrist and the bottom of my pinkie, but that was remarkably tender on Sunday.
I should have just gone to the ATM and paid the kid who does the neighbors' lawn. Lesson learned.
In other news, my salad dressing disappeared from the office refrigerator yesterday, a mere two hours after being put there. What? I have come to terms with the fact that people will use dressing that isn't theirs, if it's open and in their reach, but to actually take it away with you? Why would you take someone else's partially-used dressing home? Bah.