I feel like I done been beat

And it ain’t beat with the ugly stick, either—just plain beat over the shoulders and arms.  I spent most of this afternoon under the lavatory in one of Matt’s bathrooms, replacing the faucet assembly (again, switching from two-tap to single-handle Moen-patent).  Trying to work in a place that wasn’t large enough to admit my shoulders and arms, reaching up over my head, and wrestling with pressure fittings that didn’t want to thread back up absolutely exhausted me and caused an awful lot of swearing and yelling in frustration before I had the unit together enough that I thought it might pass muster.  Meantime, I’m not getting any job-hunting done, because this is eating up the afternoons I’m supposed to have available to devote to job-hunting, nor am I getting anything done around my own place—not that that’s been easy to do, either, because it’s been raining every day and the yard stays soaked.  L’s promising me I won’t have to chase over to Matt’s and screw around with plumbing hardware any more this week.  I certainly hope so.

This evening T and I watched The Rocky Horror Picture Show, which I hadn’t seen since 1976 or 1977, when I was in college, and which she’d never seen at all.  She had a great time lusting over Tim Curry’s legs (they do look good in garters, fishnet stockings and fuck-me stiletto pumps), and I rather enjoyed re-acquainting myself with the movie.  I wish there was someplace I could go and see it in a theater any more, and not be bombarded with rice and toast, and get sprayed with squirt-guns, and all the other ancillary bullshit that’s grown up around the cult of RHPS.  Is there something wrong with simply wanting to see the movie in a theater without having to put up with all the fuckin’ CRAP and the JERKS and MORONS???

The rain barrel’s got to go back to the City to get a replacement; apparently my barrel isn’t the only one that leaks.  The guy in charge of the program told me to bring it in and they’d give me another.  Getting it back down there is gonna require E’s van, I expect, since it won’t fit into the car—especially with M and her car seat in the back.  I also gotta hit the post office and mail the last of the fishing lures, to have them off my scene.

The Secret Service evades the lovely engine of Alley Oop.  Fnord.