I have lived in the sticks for going on ten years now. This does not by any means make me:
- a country girl.
I’ll go so far as to say, that the only things “country” about me is:
- my fondness for some country music.
- my love for fall outdoorsy things (weather, etc.)
I am not, nor I have I ever been, big on gardening; bugs; COMPOSTING… you get the idea. So imagine my horror today when I got to move two semi-rotted watermelons & one gecko resort watermelon from one locale to the composting bin. My supplies? Two heavy-duty trashbags (God rest their little plastic souls), one wheelbarrow, and my friggin’ hands.
At first I thought my task would be a simple one. Move some watermelons from Point A to Point B? Sure! No problem! And that’s when it hit me. Almost literally… but not quite. Let me just say, for your future (but then, hopefully not) reference: when picking up a watermelon, one should never, I repeat, NEVER hear a sloshing sound. If, in fact, you do, gently put the watermelon down, and coax the vomit that has erupted in your mouth back downward. Repeat this process until you have managed to put the watermelon in the vehicular device, or in this case, a wheelbarrow.
When I FINALLY managed to grow a pair and place the two semi-rotted watermelon corpses & the residential area into the device, I moved on to the compost bin, where I would later throw up a little bit more. When I got to the compost, I noticed a long stick laying on top of the lid. “Must be to push down the pine straw & whatnot,” I foolishly thought. Nope. Its used to BEAT OFF THE MAGGOT COLONY LIVING IN APPLE HUTS. For crying out loud, guys… they had their own zip code! One of them, the big one– Big D, even flipped me the bird. I thought I was going to lose my lunch.
From three weeks ago.
Calmly not so calmly, I placed the lid back on the bin, cried a bit, and threw them in another compost bin that probably was not built to hold watermelons. Just to play it safe, I grabbed some trashbags & threw very gently placed the growing subdivision watermelon into the bags, where the thing exploded & began to eat through said bags (RE: “God rest their souls”). I came back in the house, even more pale than usual, and pondered pouring myself a drink. But, reasoning that is was only nine o’clock (and I only have light beer), I decided to pass and ate some white chocolate chips instead. The little buggers never stood a chance, anyway.
The moral of this story? Ol’ MacDonald can have all the farm he wants, so long as he keeps the HELL away from me. And I don’t even want to hear about a bloody compost pile, or its maggot population, ever again.