Tourists, Dreams and Why a Knife is Useless

So far it's been a quiet weekend here in Frog Pond Holler. The leaves aren't in full color yet, but that hasn't stopped the city folks from invading town. They go by the house in packs with their walking sticks, wanting to blend in to what they think is a "hiking town." There's a part of me that wants to go out there and gingerly take one of them to the side and explain to them that when you're using a walking stick while strolling down the SIDEWALK, it just makes you look like a dipshit.

Of course, everytime a pack of them goes by, the dogs lose their minds and begin channeling their inner Kudjo. With all the crap that went on at the office Friday, the silence being suddenly broken by the sound of snarling beasts, lunging for the front door, isn't doing a whole hell of a lot for my nerves. I've only actually gone for the butcher knife and peeked out the door a few times.

What the hell did I think I was going to do with a big knife anyway? I could never STAB someone. He'd be going for my throat and I'd be mentally analyzing what could have happened to him as a child that made him that way, debating whether or not he could help how he was and I'd be dead before it would dawn on me that I need to defend myself or die.





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I took a few pictures yesterday, but this is my favorite:







My dog, the poser. I took some others around town, but I just couldn't get into it. As I said, the leaves just aren't putting on their kaleidoscope show yet and everything around town just looks like the same old thing to me.




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I've been thinking about my job quite a bit this weekend. For the most part, I don't mind my actual job, it's the atmosphere which could use a little fine tuning. With all the snakes, perverts and psychos it's getting a little ridiculous. I'll have you know that on Friday both the GM and the plant manager had taken off, yet even though we had law enforcement and Bubbahubbies strutting around, armed and dangerous, neither of them felt it was important enough to report to work. One of the department managers was manning the helm, although he'd been out the previous day with a back injury and was hobbling around like Quasimodo.

I'm starting to wonder if I wouldn't be safer getting a job down at the prison.



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When things start getting to me and I have a difficult time going to sleep, I occupy my mind by creating a scene, sort of daydreaming about life in the quiet of the night. I've mentally designed an assortment of houses over the years, in my head, from log structures to grand mansions. Lately it's been a Spanish style house with arched doorways, ornate black wrought iron fences, a stucco exterior and cozy warm rooms. I don't know why my mind has wandered there lately. Maybe the houses I construct in my mind represent something that I need in my life, or maybe it's just my distaste with where I live now. I don't have the answer, I just know it helps me to go to sleep.

Unfortunately, this process does absolutely nothing to curb the weird dreams. Last night there was a man living in my house, someone's brother. He can best be described as being a little off, sort of child like. He was being accused of a crime and we were trying to find a way to prove he didn't do it. At the time, I didn't know what it was he was being accused of doing, but at the end of the dream, one of the dogs got out and started digging a big hole in the yard, eventually uncovering a badly decomposed body.

I could analyze the crap out of this one, but let's just chalk it up to stress, shall we?

I think I'm going to go find something constructive to get in to. Ya'll enjoy the rest of your Sunday.