Depression Talk

I got up bright and early today, at seven thirty, and decided to run down and see my horse. I was planning on feeding him, watering him, and cleaning out his stall, but my father had beat me to it. So I stood, instead, and scratched his friendly little ears while my dad finished up the cleaning.

Later I was feeling a little bit bad that my poor father had to clean out two horse stalls instead of one, and I asked him if he would like to trade off days on stall cleaning, or work out some kind of deal.

My dad pondered for a little minute before he looked at me and said “Well, Dear, I just don’t think you could do it to my satisfaction.”

And a lot of people might be offended at a comment like that. Like, what, I can’t shovel shit good enough for you? Like, I might shovel shit the wrong way? Is there a wrong way to shovel shit? I’m sure that many people would be put off by such a statement.

But not me.

See, I accepted a long, long time ago that my parents are Farkin’ Insane. My mother has a thing about the pots in her kitchen: Each one has certain tasks, certain foods that can be cooked in it, and if you cook the wrong food in the wrong pot, heads just might start to explode.

My father is equally insane. The way that I garden maddens him to the point that this year, he banished my garden to behind the chicken coop. We’re talking a location that was once a rock pile. Yes. It was once a rock pile. Not a pile of, say, compost that might have desintegrated in the last thirty years. It was a rock pile. (On a brighter note, it was mentioned to me today that since I’m managing to actually grow things in this rock pile, I’m making quite a statement about my agricultural skills. Good point.)

I think I was eight or nine when I decided that since I probably can’t beat them, I might as well join them. And I then went on a campaign to end the improper stacking of coffee cups in our home.

Since then, every time I find an improperly stacked coffee cup, I fiercefully whip open the cupboard door, produce the cups from within it, smash them together with the right amount of force and care such that they don’t end up broken, and slam the cupboard door shut. Occasionally, an imbecile trundles through our kitchen and stacks the coffee cups the wrong way but I am generally quick to remind them of their errors. And then they promptly quit coming over altogether.

And so, the fact that I probably can’t clean out my horses’ stall to my father’s satisfaction doesn’t worry me one little bit. I know that I’m a good shit-shoveler. in fact, I’m probably one of the best shit shovelers. I even throw that little tidbit out in conversation whenever I get a chance!

Its just that skill can’t compete with Crazy, and so most of the time, I don’t even need to try.

I am that confident in my ability to shovel shit.