"You don't need a gym M- - - -....This'll build 'Man-Muscles'" Is what my dear old dad said to me several years ago whilst performing some Herculean tast for them. I think it was moving a mound of their decorative river rock from one side of the yard to another. Pile after pile...Wheelbarrow after wheelbarrow. For some reason I started thinking about the play "Bent" and how the Nazi's would torture the prisoners by making them do gawdawful mundane and painful tasks. (Like moving bricks or rocks from one side of the camp to the other...then back again.) Personally, I do this manual labor for ma and pa as a sign of love and respect for all of the support (Ahem, financial as well as professional) but also to keep them from hurting themselves with the heavier tasks.

"Man-Muscles"...sheesh. I reminded myself of all of this as I was outside on Sunday, chipping away at some more tree roots with the 20 lbs Back hoe. (Those little fuckers that grow at the base of your fenceline, take root, and snake their damn way up the fence? There were literally 20-30...all thick with age.) I did not wind up buff to Schwarzeneggarian proportions, rather a knot in my shoulder, a screaming back that craved hot-tubbedness, and clothes that were once again covered with dirt and schmutz. And dirty black boogers. I'll take the "Y" any old day, Daddy-o.


(Ps: I did get a run in 3 out of the 3 days this weekend. IN-cluding the evening after I attended the Twins game. That's right, full of beer, brats, and peanuts I gave it my all for a good 4 miles. Then I puked.)