We have a very small little corridor of grass that starts beneath the three mailboxes next to our skinny mobile home driveway, and continues up from the street to some concrete rimmed Arizona flagstone. Grass, clover, and weedy oxtongue grow right where we step out from our vehicles, mine on the driver’s side and the guy’s when loading or unloading stuff from his truck back passenger side.
Naturally, neighbor dogs in the park, a large percentage of which are tiny chihuahuas, love to shit there. I imagine the cool green grass caresses their little ass checks as they happily crap at this convenient, close by dog toilet. The dogshit piles could not have been placed more fortuitously for being stepped in or on, partially hidden by the grass.
I think of it as a sort of compliment to our cat barf stained porch, which often sports a few rakishly scattered, left over cat kibble stars, occasional hairballs and tufts of black or white fur from Junior, one of two semi feral catboyz. Junior and Mr. Green grace our porch almost every morning and evening to get wet food. Our porch is testament to an unofficial catland, for it is essentially one big scratching post and has much wear. You can’t see that the front door inner mat is yellow, because it is soiled from grooming cats and foot traffic. Ah, the Wabi Sabi joys of living with traumatic abuse survivors who are not in their bodies, are paranoid , OCD and Ring of Fire ADD.
I often dream of trisodium phosphating our front door, of cutting through the grease and dirt of more than a decade, of purifying it and making it white once again, even painting it. This along with completely de-filthing my trash and recycling bins. Mere washing will not do. I believe I will have to spend days to get them clean and carefully schedule it so I can ritually cleanse them between trash pickups.And I have no intention of ever washing the outside of the mobile ever again, but plot to hire a power washer whose trucks I see in the neighborhood when I walk.
I’m well convinced that IF I completely clear, clean and ritually cleanse my battered and grease stained Chevy Impala, mountains will move. From there, I can move to what I call The Big Life Service, piece by piece, bit by bit. When we had a used, yellow, Mercedes Benz that we foolishly bought at an auction house, we had NO IDEA how expensive maintaining a Mercedes of any condition is. We went to a number of mechanics who liked to talk about The BIG SERVICE. The Big Service was their euphemism for Big Bucks to “restore” the health of the Mercedes.