I was trying to think of a witty way to begin this blog so that it wouldn't sound so serious, but I can't think of anything. So I may as well just say what happened today. I will preface this by saying that no one was seriously injured.
Sharleen and I were driving back to our shop in Snohomish from Skykomish, which is in the mountains just inside of King County. We were a little early because we finished the road that we needed to work on, and we had business to tend to at the shop (e.g. cleaning our truck because it's covered in mud from all the rain, taking care of the new brushcutter because we're only just getting it back from the mechanics on Monday and needed to work out the details today). Also, the fair opened today and we were fairly (no pun intended) certain that the traffic would hold us up for at least thirty minutes. All of this by way of explaining why Shar and I were headed east on highway 2 at 3:13 this afternoon.
Between the towns Startup and Sultan, there is a road called (fittingly) Sultan-Startup Rd. It loops around highway 2. As we drove past, a silver car was stopped on the highway, left blinker on, preparing to turn left onto the Sultan-Startup road. We were driving in the opposite direction.
When we were directly to the right of the silver car (in terms of distance, my body was about 10 feet away), a red pick-up truck slammed in the back of the silver car.
Ever fill a balloon with confetti and then pop it? That's what the collision looked like. Glass sprayed everywhere and the silver car shot forward about 500 feet. Its back tires exploded. Whatever the exhaust pipe is connected to fell out of the back of the car and dragged along the pavement. I saw the initial crash to my left out the driver's side window; the rest I saw in the rear view mirror.
We pulled off the road as soon as we were able to, about .4 miles from the crash. Shar called 911 because I was driving (though she had to use my phone because she has a Blackberry and can do everything on it except make a phone call. It was one humorous moment of this whole ordeal.). Then we looked at each other and both said, "We have to go back."
See, we're both certified flaggers. It is recommended, though not required, that in an emergency situation a certified flagger handle traffic until the road is clear. So we whipped back around and got back to the scene of the accident before the cops got there. I grabbed my gear and a sign and started flagging immediately; Shar (former Navy, so she knows what she's doing) went to check on the drivers.
The guy in the silver car was a younger guy, probably 25 years old or so. The man driving the red pick-up was an older gentleman, probably between 60 and 65. The steering wheel hit him in the chest and he was complaining of chest pain. Considering the speed of the impact and how little damage there was to the truck, I think it was definitely good that EMS took him to the hospital because I worry that he may have taken the brunt of the impact in his chest. He didn't even tap the breaks before he hit, so he was moving really fast and may have had internal damage.
So anyway, in order to deal with the incredibly high volume of traffic (remember, the fair opened today), I had to don my orange and practically dive in front of the traffic in order to get them to stop. Once the Sultan police, sheriff, and state patrol (yes, representatives of all levels of law enforcement) and EMS showed up about three minutes after Shar was able to start flagging the other end of the "zone." We controlled the traffic for about an hour while the cops cleared the whole mess from the road. They kept thanking us for stopping to help.
Once the vehicles were cleared (the sheriff drove was able to drive the truck into a driveway, but a tow truck had to come for the silver car), the troopers used their cars to block traffic in both directions where Shar and I had been standing so that we could go back to our truck and leave. We got out of there around 4:15. And actually, we weren't even late getting back to the shop. We weren't able to take care of the equipment like we wanted to, but we were so glad to be able to go home on time (more or less) that we didn't mind losing the usual "close down" window that we get on Thursdays.
So the adrenaline is still pumping pretty hard, but at least it's over. I think what scared me the most was being to close to the accident the second that it happened. If the silver car had been pointing its wheels toward the road he was going to turn onto (like 80% of drivers seem to do), he would have careened right into us. It was a close call.
I am glad we were able to help. My heart stopped pounding as soon as EMS showed up, and then it was just like a normal day at work (albeit with a LOT more traffic than I'm used to. Then again, I usually work county roads, not state highways). The day had been pretty slow and lazy, and then it exploded into a grand finale just before the end. What a day.
Showing posts with label road crew. Show all posts
Showing posts with label road crew. Show all posts
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
Glorified unemployment
As today was my last day of work (YAHOO!), I feel a little reflection is appropriate. This wasn't a bad summer job. I'd never do it full time, but there are definitely things that I enjoyed. Of course, there were things that I disliked, too. That's why they have to pay you to show up.
Without further ado, here are my reflections.
Things I Shall Miss About My Summer Job
Things I Shall Not Miss About My Summer Job
Without further ado, here are my reflections.
Things I Shall Miss About My Summer Job
- Watching the sun rise as I drive east every morning.
- The espresso stand right by the shop.
- Some of my co-workers.
- Sprawling views of the Cascade Mountains, if I’m in the right spot.
- Ample time to read while driving around.
- Generous and thoughtful drivers who stop to give the flaggers ice water and fresh fruit.
- Friendly kids and dogs that run up and beg to play with you while you stand there.
- Feeding horses at the edges of the pastures.
- Being outside all day, getting the best tan (or the most freckles) that I’ve ever had.
- Playing with my walkie-talkie.
- Driving a pickup truck.
- Hourly compensation.
Things I Shall Not Miss About My Summer Job
- 6:30am role call.
- Some of my co-workers.
- Getting lost frequently while driving around.
- Irrational and impatient drivers who scream at you, threaten you, or ignore if you tell them to stop.
- Drivers who manage not to notice three warning signs, a human being clad entirely in orange clothing, or a stop sign, and then slam on the brakes and accuse you of not making yourself visible.
- Roadkill.
- Gutless pickup trucks.
- Having to be dragged back to solid ground by clinging to the back of the truck if one loses one’s balance on a ditch at the side of the road.
- Reflective and/or orange clothing.
- In-shop drama.
- Porta-potties
- Convinience store lunches.
Monday, September 10, 2007
I salute you, you irreverent little shits
For women working out on the road, I suppose it is unwritten in the job description that we have to put up with mild harassment on the job. Not from our co-workers—that’s grounds for termination—but from the civilians whom we serve.
There are the subtle ones (e.g. ask how your day is going, wonder how a pretty girl like you got a dirty job like this, casually mention your ex-wife, etc), the cocky ones (e.g. wolf whistles, cat-calls, and generally inappropriate comments [“Hey, pretty lady” being the least offensive, but still inappropriate]), and the obvious, silent stares (my face is up a few feet, guys).
But, for all the impropriety and immaturity of their actions, I must salute two young men, anonymous though they may be, out there in Snohomish County. They take the cake for most brazen and ballsy harassment; despite how offensive it was, when I think about it I can only laugh.
I stood at the city limits of Monroe, flagging traffic for the brush cutter. I’d had a few flirty comments thus far in the day (which I can never understand—I’m out there in all my reflective orange glory, wearing a hard hat, sunglasses, and about three layers of clothing. Awake since dawn, no make-up, and so wired on coffee that I'm sure I look high. I’m sure there are prettier things to look at), but none that really stood out above others.
A car rolled to a stop before me, containing two young men who (I hope it’s safe to assume) have just graduated from high school. They began whispering back and forth, gesturing (not very subtly) and glancing furtively, at me and then away. I figured I’d let them have their fun and decided not to stare them down.
I wasn’t looking, but they must have cranked up the stereo pretty loud. I thought there were speakers outside of the car—that’s how loud the music was. Apparently they were using an iPod, because they fast-forwarded the song to the chorus. They turned it on full-blast.
The song was “F*** Her Gently” by Tenacious D. The chorus starts, “I’m gonna f*** you softly,” and it goes on with various synonyms (screw/gently, ball/discreetly, etc). Here are the lyrics, but you get the idea.
Now, I was beyond offended. Moreover, I was embarrassed. And if I had had my wits about me, I would have raised a fist and cried out, “Foul woe upon ye, gentlemen! How dare ye so blithely carry on as though you have a right to my body? Thou knowest not my soul, have not captured my heart! For shame! Shame, ye beasts! May your faces burn crimson with shame!”
Alas, I did not have my wits about me. Instead, I just burst out laughing.
For one thing, I laugh when I’m feeling flustered (and boy, did I feel flustered) or embarrassed. But on the other hand, despite how obnoxious, immature, and inappropriate it was, I thought it was hysterical. I know very few people who would think of that so quickly, and even fewer who would have the huevos to actually go through with it. When I finally sent them through the work zone, they flashed these shit-eating grins and waved.
At the end of the day, it was a couple of little boys just having fun, even if it did lead to my being the object (literally) of a joke. I felt kind of lame, like thinking that it’s funny is an insult to my professed feminism, but come on. For sheer absurdity, it was a pretty funny minute-and-a-half for all involved.
There are the subtle ones (e.g. ask how your day is going, wonder how a pretty girl like you got a dirty job like this, casually mention your ex-wife, etc), the cocky ones (e.g. wolf whistles, cat-calls, and generally inappropriate comments [“Hey, pretty lady” being the least offensive, but still inappropriate]), and the obvious, silent stares (my face is up a few feet, guys).
But, for all the impropriety and immaturity of their actions, I must salute two young men, anonymous though they may be, out there in Snohomish County. They take the cake for most brazen and ballsy harassment; despite how offensive it was, when I think about it I can only laugh.
I stood at the city limits of Monroe, flagging traffic for the brush cutter. I’d had a few flirty comments thus far in the day (which I can never understand—I’m out there in all my reflective orange glory, wearing a hard hat, sunglasses, and about three layers of clothing. Awake since dawn, no make-up, and so wired on coffee that I'm sure I look high. I’m sure there are prettier things to look at), but none that really stood out above others.
A car rolled to a stop before me, containing two young men who (I hope it’s safe to assume) have just graduated from high school. They began whispering back and forth, gesturing (not very subtly) and glancing furtively, at me and then away. I figured I’d let them have their fun and decided not to stare them down.
I wasn’t looking, but they must have cranked up the stereo pretty loud. I thought there were speakers outside of the car—that’s how loud the music was. Apparently they were using an iPod, because they fast-forwarded the song to the chorus. They turned it on full-blast.
The song was “F*** Her Gently” by Tenacious D. The chorus starts, “I’m gonna f*** you softly,” and it goes on with various synonyms (screw/gently, ball/discreetly, etc). Here are the lyrics, but you get the idea.
Now, I was beyond offended. Moreover, I was embarrassed. And if I had had my wits about me, I would have raised a fist and cried out, “Foul woe upon ye, gentlemen! How dare ye so blithely carry on as though you have a right to my body? Thou knowest not my soul, have not captured my heart! For shame! Shame, ye beasts! May your faces burn crimson with shame!”
Alas, I did not have my wits about me. Instead, I just burst out laughing.
For one thing, I laugh when I’m feeling flustered (and boy, did I feel flustered) or embarrassed. But on the other hand, despite how obnoxious, immature, and inappropriate it was, I thought it was hysterical. I know very few people who would think of that so quickly, and even fewer who would have the huevos to actually go through with it. When I finally sent them through the work zone, they flashed these shit-eating grins and waved.
At the end of the day, it was a couple of little boys just having fun, even if it did lead to my being the object (literally) of a joke. I felt kind of lame, like thinking that it’s funny is an insult to my professed feminism, but come on. For sheer absurdity, it was a pretty funny minute-and-a-half for all involved.
Tuesday, August 7, 2007
The smell of death
The phrase “the smell of death” carries a whole new meaning for me today.
To those who have never experienced it, it sounds like a poetic way of saying “a really bad smell.” Poetic, but perhaps overdramatic. I don’t know about you, but I always figured, hey, it can’t be so bad, right? Touching a corpse? Smelling one?
Holy mama, was I wrong. Today was my first experience actually touching a dead animal. It was a very young baby deer. It was hit by a car a few days ago.
The girl I was working with has been on this job for five years—she had her first time, as well. And she’s also been there for a lot of other people’s first experience with a rotting carcass. She’s also a psychology major. So she understands and appreciates that, no matter a person’s disposition or “prior record” (as she put it), there is no way to tell how you will react to that situation until you are smack in the middle of it.
I gagged. I had tears in my eyes. I had to walk away and come back about four times. I had to look away as I carried him. Heather thought I was going to faint. All the while she asked, “Are you OK?” And every time, I answered, “Yup. Let’s get him.” It took me a few more trips to the side of the road trying not to puke, and the spoken words, “I need your help to do this” (and if you know me well, you know that if you tell me you need my help, you get it. The end.), but we finally got it into the truck.
We drove around for a while, looking for a decent “resting place” (without the public seeing. Rule number one: do not let civilians see you with a dead deer. It’s like watching Bambi for the first time. Or that scene in Napoleon Dynamite with the cow and the kids on the school bus) for him. We gave him back to the earth, and I’m sure the other animals will take care of him soon.
I got back in the truck all covered in this awful, clammy sweat and rested my head on the steering wheel before I could drive. Heather finally said, “You did good. A lot of people break their first time.”
I didn’t tell her that it wasn’t the idea of a dead fawn that was getting to me, it was the smell.
The smell of death clings to you. It crawls to the back of your throat and stays there like a lump that you can’t get rid of, unless you cry. It seeps into your skin and weighs on you. The smell aside, I was a little troubled.
It’s not death that bothers me, it’s the absence of life. A body that was once animated, full of life and breath, remains, but everything that made it what it meant to you is gone. That wasn’t a deer on the side of the road, it was a carcass. Wakes and funerals are like that, too. You look at a body, one that you were always happy to see because a soul that you loved was enshrined within it. But every reason that you were ever happy to see it is gone from it. All that’s left is a deteriorating, smelling mess.
To those who have never experienced it, it sounds like a poetic way of saying “a really bad smell.” Poetic, but perhaps overdramatic. I don’t know about you, but I always figured, hey, it can’t be so bad, right? Touching a corpse? Smelling one?
Holy mama, was I wrong. Today was my first experience actually touching a dead animal. It was a very young baby deer. It was hit by a car a few days ago.
The girl I was working with has been on this job for five years—she had her first time, as well. And she’s also been there for a lot of other people’s first experience with a rotting carcass. She’s also a psychology major. So she understands and appreciates that, no matter a person’s disposition or “prior record” (as she put it), there is no way to tell how you will react to that situation until you are smack in the middle of it.
I gagged. I had tears in my eyes. I had to walk away and come back about four times. I had to look away as I carried him. Heather thought I was going to faint. All the while she asked, “Are you OK?” And every time, I answered, “Yup. Let’s get him.” It took me a few more trips to the side of the road trying not to puke, and the spoken words, “I need your help to do this” (and if you know me well, you know that if you tell me you need my help, you get it. The end.), but we finally got it into the truck.
We drove around for a while, looking for a decent “resting place” (without the public seeing. Rule number one: do not let civilians see you with a dead deer. It’s like watching Bambi for the first time. Or that scene in Napoleon Dynamite with the cow and the kids on the school bus) for him. We gave him back to the earth, and I’m sure the other animals will take care of him soon.
I got back in the truck all covered in this awful, clammy sweat and rested my head on the steering wheel before I could drive. Heather finally said, “You did good. A lot of people break their first time.”
I didn’t tell her that it wasn’t the idea of a dead fawn that was getting to me, it was the smell.
The smell of death clings to you. It crawls to the back of your throat and stays there like a lump that you can’t get rid of, unless you cry. It seeps into your skin and weighs on you. The smell aside, I was a little troubled.
It’s not death that bothers me, it’s the absence of life. A body that was once animated, full of life and breath, remains, but everything that made it what it meant to you is gone. That wasn’t a deer on the side of the road, it was a carcass. Wakes and funerals are like that, too. You look at a body, one that you were always happy to see because a soul that you loved was enshrined within it. But every reason that you were ever happy to see it is gone from it. All that’s left is a deteriorating, smelling mess.
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
I thought this only happened to cartoon characters
My butt hurts. Maybe that's because a dog bit it.
No, seriously. The story that informs those statements is no less embarrassing than the statements are. But it is entertaining, so here is is:
It was kind of a lax day for us flaggers, being that my crew chief was only running the brushcutter on dead end roads (no through traffic= no need for a flagger). We brought a Porta-Potty along with us because we were an all-female crew out in the middle of nowhere. We drive them on trailers that attach to the backs of our pickup trucks. Because of the low activity level, I was put in charge of towing the Porta-Potty around. I found a seemingly-safe stretch of road to leave it and went to join my crew.
About two hours later I went back for a bathroom break, but alas, someone had pushed it down a narrow, dead end, downhill, gravel road. With the trailer hitch pointing at the dead end and my truck on the main road behind it. It had to have been pushed, because the tire chocks had been thrown way back into the brush on the side of the road.
As it was blocking the road, I had to go get it. I managed to squeeze the truck past it in order to hook the trailer onto my truck, but that didn't help much. I still needed to back out. With a trailer attached. Uphill. On gravel.
That was clearly not an option, so I decided to turn the trailer around. Given the dimensions of the road, that wasn't a great option either. I was stuck between a rock and a hard place. Or a ditch and a pile of sand, as it were. There was no way to turn a car, much less a truck, much less one with a trailer attached, around on that road.
The only thing I could think to do was put the trailer on the truck, back up until it jack-knifed, then stop, unhitch the trailer, move the truck around to align with the trailer hitch (no easy task when the shoulder of the road is a ditch), hook it back up, and push again. I had to do that over and over again until I turned the trailer around. Then I had to get the truck on the other side of the Porta-Potty, hook it up, and pull it back up to the asphalt road. St. Jude (patron of lost causes, for my non-Catholic readership) never got so many prayer requests from any one person in one hour (yes, the retrieval of the damn Porta-Potty took a full hour) than he did from me during that interval.
Of course, the whole frustrating and tedious process was interrupted when the woman who lives at the end of the gravel road (she heard the kids who pushed the trailer down the road, by the way) needed to get out to go to the doctor. So I shoved the trailer off to the side of the road (as in, in the ditch. Which meant I had to start the whole process of turning the trailer around over) to let her pass, but that alerted her dog to the ordeal in the road. After she left, the dog stayed behind, alternately chasing my truck and barking at me.
I didn't want to hurt him or back over him, so I did my best to keep his attention at the driver's side window (banging on the side of the door, calling him, etc) while I was driving. But I kept having to jump out of the truck to hitch and unhitch the trailer, which probably made him think I wanted to play. Around the millionth time that I went to work on the trailer, he ran up behind me and bit my ass. Hard.
My reaction was loud enough (I went from a light and breezy "good dog" voice to an extremely sharp "no, no! good dogs don't bite" kind of tone) that he didn't do it again, but it still hurt pretty badly. And I was nowhere near saving my trailer at that point.
It took a lot of patience, many clumsy maneuvers and slips over the side of the road, the accidental flattening of the massive pile of sand (I have no idea why it was there), and countless petitions to St. Jude, but I got out of there. The only real damage was that wheel of the trailer jack was cracked, probably from bouncing down the road.
Oh, and my ass is killing me.
No, seriously. The story that informs those statements is no less embarrassing than the statements are. But it is entertaining, so here is is:
It was kind of a lax day for us flaggers, being that my crew chief was only running the brushcutter on dead end roads (no through traffic= no need for a flagger). We brought a Porta-Potty along with us because we were an all-female crew out in the middle of nowhere. We drive them on trailers that attach to the backs of our pickup trucks. Because of the low activity level, I was put in charge of towing the Porta-Potty around. I found a seemingly-safe stretch of road to leave it and went to join my crew.
About two hours later I went back for a bathroom break, but alas, someone had pushed it down a narrow, dead end, downhill, gravel road. With the trailer hitch pointing at the dead end and my truck on the main road behind it. It had to have been pushed, because the tire chocks had been thrown way back into the brush on the side of the road.
As it was blocking the road, I had to go get it. I managed to squeeze the truck past it in order to hook the trailer onto my truck, but that didn't help much. I still needed to back out. With a trailer attached. Uphill. On gravel.
That was clearly not an option, so I decided to turn the trailer around. Given the dimensions of the road, that wasn't a great option either. I was stuck between a rock and a hard place. Or a ditch and a pile of sand, as it were. There was no way to turn a car, much less a truck, much less one with a trailer attached, around on that road.
The only thing I could think to do was put the trailer on the truck, back up until it jack-knifed, then stop, unhitch the trailer, move the truck around to align with the trailer hitch (no easy task when the shoulder of the road is a ditch), hook it back up, and push again. I had to do that over and over again until I turned the trailer around. Then I had to get the truck on the other side of the Porta-Potty, hook it up, and pull it back up to the asphalt road. St. Jude (patron of lost causes, for my non-Catholic readership) never got so many prayer requests from any one person in one hour (yes, the retrieval of the damn Porta-Potty took a full hour) than he did from me during that interval.
Of course, the whole frustrating and tedious process was interrupted when the woman who lives at the end of the gravel road (she heard the kids who pushed the trailer down the road, by the way) needed to get out to go to the doctor. So I shoved the trailer off to the side of the road (as in, in the ditch. Which meant I had to start the whole process of turning the trailer around over) to let her pass, but that alerted her dog to the ordeal in the road. After she left, the dog stayed behind, alternately chasing my truck and barking at me.
I didn't want to hurt him or back over him, so I did my best to keep his attention at the driver's side window (banging on the side of the door, calling him, etc) while I was driving. But I kept having to jump out of the truck to hitch and unhitch the trailer, which probably made him think I wanted to play. Around the millionth time that I went to work on the trailer, he ran up behind me and bit my ass. Hard.
My reaction was loud enough (I went from a light and breezy "good dog" voice to an extremely sharp "no, no! good dogs don't bite" kind of tone) that he didn't do it again, but it still hurt pretty badly. And I was nowhere near saving my trailer at that point.
It took a lot of patience, many clumsy maneuvers and slips over the side of the road, the accidental flattening of the massive pile of sand (I have no idea why it was there), and countless petitions to St. Jude, but I got out of there. The only real damage was that wheel of the trailer jack was cracked, probably from bouncing down the road.
Oh, and my ass is killing me.
Saturday, July 14, 2007
Working on the vactor
Just when I believed I was doomed to a summer of interminable flagging, God (through my supervisor, but I picked up on it) broke the monotony. I worked on the vactor crew on the last day of work this week.
A vactor, for all of you ill-informed civilians, is basically a giant (about as big as a semi truck) vacuum machine that is driven around like a tractor (hence the name. Ingenious, I know). It is used to suck all of the slime and muck out of the storm drains so that they don't over flow.
It's a bit of a messy job, but not terribly complex. You take the vactor hose and put extensions on it (so that you can reach down man holes). Then you pry the storm grate open, lower the hose, and suck all the crap out of the drain. It's pretty necessary in the summertime because so much of the water evaporates. So all the dirt that it washes down the drain stays down there and blocks it up. One really fun part of being on the crew is using a water gun to loosen all the mud.
Eventually you take the full tank to a dump and unload it all. The entire process is muddy and sticky, and it's pretty much a guarantee that you will get slimed, and then really wet. But it's totally worth it, especially on hot days. And it's so much more fun than flagging.
Is it sad that this is all I have to report from my life? No one told me that making a decent living would come at the expense of really interesting anecdotes...
A vactor, for all of you ill-informed civilians, is basically a giant (about as big as a semi truck) vacuum machine that is driven around like a tractor (hence the name. Ingenious, I know). It is used to suck all of the slime and muck out of the storm drains so that they don't over flow.
It's a bit of a messy job, but not terribly complex. You take the vactor hose and put extensions on it (so that you can reach down man holes). Then you pry the storm grate open, lower the hose, and suck all the crap out of the drain. It's pretty necessary in the summertime because so much of the water evaporates. So all the dirt that it washes down the drain stays down there and blocks it up. One really fun part of being on the crew is using a water gun to loosen all the mud.
Eventually you take the full tank to a dump and unload it all. The entire process is muddy and sticky, and it's pretty much a guarantee that you will get slimed, and then really wet. But it's totally worth it, especially on hot days. And it's so much more fun than flagging.
Is it sad that this is all I have to report from my life? No one told me that making a decent living would come at the expense of really interesting anecdotes...
Tuesday, July 3, 2007
"Hey, Issac, what do nettles look like?"
Quoth my radio call to my partner this afternoon.
The question was prompted by the burning sensation from my elbow to my hand after having stuck my arm through a harmless-looking bush on the side of the road. Once it started looking like a million mosquitoes had had at it on my skin, I figured it had to be nettles. Big fun.
The sad thing is that I've had nettles a bunch of times before when I was little, but every time someone said, "See those? Those are nettles," I was too preoccupied with the stinging to actually process what nettles actually look like.
I also accidentally got lost in a county truck for forty minutes (when I finally radioed for help, it turned out I was about a block away from the shop. But, since I have no internal compass, I still needed turn-by-turn directions. I am so cool like that...) Later when I was recording all of our fuel mumbo-jumbo, the diesel pump popped and squirted me in the face.
Although strangely, I had a really good day. It was just eventful.
Happy 4th, if you're reading this then!
The question was prompted by the burning sensation from my elbow to my hand after having stuck my arm through a harmless-looking bush on the side of the road. Once it started looking like a million mosquitoes had had at it on my skin, I figured it had to be nettles. Big fun.
The sad thing is that I've had nettles a bunch of times before when I was little, but every time someone said, "See those? Those are nettles," I was too preoccupied with the stinging to actually process what nettles actually look like.
I also accidentally got lost in a county truck for forty minutes (when I finally radioed for help, it turned out I was about a block away from the shop. But, since I have no internal compass, I still needed turn-by-turn directions. I am so cool like that...) Later when I was recording all of our fuel mumbo-jumbo, the diesel pump popped and squirted me in the face.
Although strangely, I had a really good day. It was just eventful.
Happy 4th, if you're reading this then!
Monday, July 2, 2007
I am so lame
I've figured out why I never worked out in high school. It was the hours I was keeping.
Every morning when I get up for work, I promise myself I'll hit the gym when I come home. But when I come home, I'm hungry. So I eat, and then the fact that I've been up so long slowly sinks in. By 6pm, all I want is to lie low and get some sleep.
Hence, no work out in a week. I keep picking days to go for it, and then I end up falling asleep at home.
This is not good. It took me months to get into decent enough shape that my body would want exercise. I'll go this week, I promise (who am I promising? All right, faithful readers (all 2.4 of you), be my witnesses).
Every morning when I get up for work, I promise myself I'll hit the gym when I come home. But when I come home, I'm hungry. So I eat, and then the fact that I've been up so long slowly sinks in. By 6pm, all I want is to lie low and get some sleep.
Hence, no work out in a week. I keep picking days to go for it, and then I end up falling asleep at home.
This is not good. It took me months to get into decent enough shape that my body would want exercise. I'll go this week, I promise (who am I promising? All right, faithful readers (all 2.4 of you), be my witnesses).
Monday, June 25, 2007
OK, so it's been a while
Sorry for the long lack of updates, folks. Going home, unpacking, running around to start the new job. You know how it is.
Speaking of which, my new job is nice. It's my first job that wasn't customer service oriented- (read: For the first time in a while, I'm not running my ass off all day, being a complete sycophant at the expense of my own dignity, pride, and self-respect. There's a difference between being a humble servant and being exploited). Thus far I've just hung out and held a stop sign for the brush cutters, but what's funny is that more time and energy go into preparing the work site (setting up warning signs and such) than actually working in the work site. Then again, I am still used to a job where I'm supposed to at least look like I'm busy, even when I'm not working. On the road crew, our proverbial customers (drivers) don't want or need to see us out and about because it impedes their commute (which is fair enough). So not a lot of time is spent on the road, even if we get a lot of work done.
It only gets scary when people blow past all three blazing orange signs that warn about a flagger ahead and come straight at me at 35+ mph and 1) slam on their brakes and call out in a slightly apologetic, slightly exasperated tone, "Oh, sorry, I didn't see you" or "Wow! That was a surprise!" (what, the three signs, my stop pole, hard hat and glowing vest didn't give me away?) or 2) don't stop at all, which allows for the possibility of a head-on collision in the one remaining lane. My heart has leaped into my throat a few times when people have neglected to stop- a car could be coming straight at them from the other end of the work site. Yikes.
Not a whole lot else to report. I've been reading and hitting the gym during my off hours. I read The Kite Runner- good book. I've just started The World's First Love, the one by Archbishop Sheen about Mary. Many of my friends have read it and recommend it highly, and so far it's really good.
Speaking of which, my new job is nice. It's my first job that wasn't customer service oriented- (read: For the first time in a while, I'm not running my ass off all day, being a complete sycophant at the expense of my own dignity, pride, and self-respect. There's a difference between being a humble servant and being exploited). Thus far I've just hung out and held a stop sign for the brush cutters, but what's funny is that more time and energy go into preparing the work site (setting up warning signs and such) than actually working in the work site. Then again, I am still used to a job where I'm supposed to at least look like I'm busy, even when I'm not working. On the road crew, our proverbial customers (drivers) don't want or need to see us out and about because it impedes their commute (which is fair enough). So not a lot of time is spent on the road, even if we get a lot of work done.
It only gets scary when people blow past all three blazing orange signs that warn about a flagger ahead and come straight at me at 35+ mph and 1) slam on their brakes and call out in a slightly apologetic, slightly exasperated tone, "Oh, sorry, I didn't see you" or "Wow! That was a surprise!" (what, the three signs, my stop pole, hard hat and glowing vest didn't give me away?) or 2) don't stop at all, which allows for the possibility of a head-on collision in the one remaining lane. My heart has leaped into my throat a few times when people have neglected to stop- a car could be coming straight at them from the other end of the work site. Yikes.
Not a whole lot else to report. I've been reading and hitting the gym during my off hours. I read The Kite Runner- good book. I've just started The World's First Love, the one by Archbishop Sheen about Mary. Many of my friends have read it and recommend it highly, and so far it's really good.
Saturday, June 2, 2007
This summer
I'm scared for what will happen to this blog over the summer. I don't think there'll be a whole lot of interesting stuff from Monday through Thursday during the week. Friday through Sunday should be fun stuff though. Provided I can get a car and/or alternate transportation.
Maybe I'll pull up some of the random thoughts I have about books and songs and stuff that I've stored on my computer (yes, I wrote blogs before I had a blog. Shut up) to fill the void. Stuff like outrage with the American media and thoughts on being a tortured artist. Would anyone keep reading?
Because "A Day in the Life of a Flagger" may not be too great a read...
Monday: "Today I got sunburned. One dude flipped me off."
Tuesday: "My boots are heavy. Two cars drove past me when I told them to stop."
Wednesday: "My sunburn is peeling."
I'm not complaining- I'm lucky to be among the gainfully employed in this world. Doubly so for having a government job, great hourly wage and steady hours (no more of that "show up at 4am bullshit") but I'm not sure of the job's entertainment value. Which is OK with me- I just worry for all 2.4 of my loyal readers.
Maybe I'll pull up some of the random thoughts I have about books and songs and stuff that I've stored on my computer (yes, I wrote blogs before I had a blog. Shut up) to fill the void. Stuff like outrage with the American media and thoughts on being a tortured artist. Would anyone keep reading?
Because "A Day in the Life of a Flagger" may not be too great a read...
Monday: "Today I got sunburned. One dude flipped me off."
Tuesday: "My boots are heavy. Two cars drove past me when I told them to stop."
Wednesday: "My sunburn is peeling."
I'm not complaining- I'm lucky to be among the gainfully employed in this world. Doubly so for having a government job, great hourly wage and steady hours (no more of that "show up at 4am bullshit") but I'm not sure of the job's entertainment value. Which is OK with me- I just worry for all 2.4 of my loyal readers.
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