bury the boots

Friday is my last day as a landscaper. I’m going to bury my boots wherever we finish the day. By the sound of it the location won’t be one I’ve got any emotional attachment to, unfortunately, but the point is I’m burying my boots. I believe when the beer whistle blows I will in fact arrange to drink that beer wearing flip-flops. I think that would go well with the wet t-shirt tied around my head. Full credit to Talktalk, btw, for selling me on that idea. It really does work. Those wacky Arabs were on to something. When I get home I will, with due ceremony, turf most of my work shirts and a couple very tired pairs of shorts. Straight to the garbage. Garbagio!

I’ve had a great time landscaping. Parts of it have sucked, don’t get me wrong. But I’m happy & healthy and I’ve got a stunning farmers’ tan and I’ve been working outside for months while most people have tended to their pastiness under brain-melting flourescent lights. Most importantly I’ve built some really beautiful scenery- the sort that people invite guests over for just so they can show off. The sort of backyard (or beach front) that adds forty thousand dollars to the value of the home.

I feel justified in some pride for my small contribution.

That said, I also feel a hell of a lot of excitement in burying my boots, chucking my belongings into a truck and tallying ho for some fabulous new adventures with my girl by my side.

And to those of you pundits that slyly point out that my new job is under strictly controlled sound, light and air conditions… well, screw you- I’m working in the movie biz. Woohoo!

Moving Day: Sunday. Here we come.