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It's an epic adventure, one that involves disposing of several massive pounds of bullshit that probably should've been removed months ago. It's kind of like my basement -- I get most of the way through it, but that last corner, that last pile of crap that needs to be sorted and put away, just sits there, mocking me. Every time I turn around, there's that pile still.
That's what today is like -- bullshit stuck to us like a barnacle. No matter how productive we attempt to be, we have a barnacle full of bullshit attached to our butts. Barnacle butts. I have that old (dirty and insulting but funny) song stuck in my head, "Barnacle Bill, the Sailor," and it runs through my brain as we go from one venue to another, one city to another, criss-crossing the Merrimack Valley like basket weavers. Bullshit barnacle basket weavers.
We look up while in one place (business) ... barnacle. We go to another place (breakfast) ... barnacle. We're sipping mimosas (okay, still breakfast) ... barnacle. I'm starting to contemplate surgical removal of the bullshit barnacle when my daughter mentions one word that will solve all of our problems.
Shoes.
Aha! No bullshit barnacle dares follow us to DSW. No one can be agitated nor aggravated when combing the expansive clearance section of DSW, but still, before heading out to DSW, we do a complete walk around her car in the parking lot after leaving breakfast. We don't expect to find anything, but there seems to be some solace in checking the perimeter to break the bullshit barnacle butt curse.
It's like when our ancestors danced around the Maypole to ward off evil spirits. We're just modernizing it for posterity's sake.
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New shoes or no new shoes, it turns out to be a very productive day.