I am sad to report that I’m faced with the task to be writing the obituary for Amy Solt’s pride, ego, and general well being. As we speak, I’m digging a relatively big hole in the back yard where all these pieces of Solt will be placed in their finally resting place along with her smoke alarm.

It has been a extremely slow and arduous process to the grave. As someone who knew these aspects of Solt well, let me tell you, she thought if she did what was professionally recommended, then all would be just fine, but then it wasn’t. She did it just as they said, and then some. Never feeling guilty about cutting corners. This philosophy carried over into other portions of her life as well. Solt often would become quickly obsessed with particular things, and did them and repeated…and repeated. Health vs. obsession, who really knows? But who really cared as long as there was a benefit, a payoff? She lived within the paradigm that if you lived healthy then you should BE healthy.

Things did unravel a bit in the last few months. Solt was rear-ended, and not in the good way. This lead to a small neck issue that grew into a larger neck and back issue, due to stubbornness to do anything but hours and hours of yard work. A few visits to a chiropractor and a high blood pressure scare that literally took seconds off her life. This neurotic Solt mind thought, I can only surmise, “High blood pressure, there is no way I can workout any more than I already do!” Luckily, the high blood pressure was not an issue. However, as a person who adequately knew Solt knows at times her blood pressure might creep up in numbers when she is feeling just a bit infuriated, even when smiling at the person, who brought Solt to answer her door at 8 o’clock at in the evening, concerned about her soul and where it might go when she passes on. Next time, I would like to direct this lovely person to the cavernous hole that is nicely started in the corner of her yard.

This takes me back to the issue, but on another unfortunate tangent at the same time. It is difficult to conceive the news of a cavity on the top back left molar was the demise of Solt. It was diagnosed as a incredibly small cavity, easily fixed. However, this spiraled into death for Solt, I sat at her bedside after her diagnoses. Solt sat shaking her head staring blankly. I flossed. I brushed. I rinse with fluoride, and repeated AND REPEATED! How did this happen? Shameful. And Ashamed. Solt let the old feelings of guilt return.

Solt was/is in recovery from religion. From a very young person to her formative years, she was confronted by a very small, but forceful grand woman who insisted poor Solt was going to hell and needed to be saved. It seemed Solt was saved hundred of times by the hands of this woman. This redundancy could have meant only one thing in Solt’s mind….Solt must have been evil and this poor little woman sensed it. Solt walked around mostly just waiting for the loving hands of Almighty to reach down at any moment and snuff out the evilness that surely existed. Solt suffered mostly in silence, feeling guilty for breathing, being and mainly living. Solt developed a breathtaking perfection complex to fill her time and it did take her mind off of her impending doom that was most certainly loomed just around the corner.

Solt adopted many concepts to busy her mind and body. She was the only elementary student who actually trained for ‘field day”. Solt did not step on any cracks on the side walk, cause you heard the rhyme. Solt became pretty rigid in some of her thinking. All of her actions were to stave off guilt as it was the overriding force in her mind. Perfection had to be the key to survival. If Solt did not screw up at all, then there would be no reason for the wrath of the Almighty to come crashing down upon her shoulders.

Good brushing. No, GREAT brushing and never missing a 6 month cleaning, should equal NO cavities. And still a cavity. Now, I am digging of a rather large hole in the back yard for my dear friend’s ego, pride and general well being. I decided to add the smoke alarm. I don’t think Solt will mind. Even with brand spanking new batteries this device still manages to beep every 60 seconds. It seems fitting the smoke alarm be placed in the final resting place to provide eternal torment for these essential parts of Solt. I am certain the last person who knocked on Solt’s door concerned about her soul would approve.

There is so much dust in my house if I sit still long enough I imagine I would eventually look a bit like Santa, covered in a snow like dust hat with a matching beard. I would like to think that even with the beard I would be a tad bit sexier and with better abs. I vacuum, sweep, swifter and wet swifter and then repeat, and then repeat. I have a family of dust bears living under my bed, notice how I didn’t say bunnies. I have not named them yet.

There are so many weeds in my yards, I just decided to water them and tell people they are my plants. I am hopeful they will grow tall enough and I will eventually climb them to sky and bring back some golden eggs. There better be an egg bearing chicken beyond those clouds! These weeds could have only have come from magic beans.

There is so much grass that needs to be mowed, I am sure I could feed a modest herd of sheep or goats. I could quit my job and just herd them around my yard. I imagine myself in a white robe with one of those wooden sticks that resembles a candy cane. Oh, and let’s not forget those sandals I assume Jesus wore, but I’m sure my toes are in better condition with a nice colorful polish, and my hair would not be unruly as it blows in the wind as my animals graze until they could burst.

There are so many ants coming and going in and out of my house, I, in desperation, read that drawing a line in chalk where the ants might be coming in will stop them (they don’t like walking through it). I drew a line around my entire house. Now, my house looks like a crime scene. I, somehow, still have ants. Which confirms my biggest fear. The ants are living in my house with me, they must have abandoned their colony long ago and moved in. I keep asking to speak to the Queen, but I think she’s dodging me, much like a stubborn squatter. I have to say I’m a bit jealous, she has all these drones bringing her food, my food. Before I evict her I need to learn her secrets, especially if it means never going grocery shopping again.

There is a house on the corner that consumes so much time that ticks between Friday and Sunday. Between the dusting, mowing, chalk outlining, and weed watering I do an extra-ordinary amount of cursing in my front and back yard, which leaves me exhausted and sometimes hoarse. I fear my neighbors might start making their little ones wear noise canceling headphone while I am out doing my yard work. So, my fist line of business when I return from my weed stalk is to deliver the golden eggs I collected to my neighbors as a sign of thanks and for paying witness to a seemingly possessed Santa, goat herding, crime scene outliner that they have no choice but to put up with for 48 hours of home owning bliss that repeats weekend after weekend, and then repeats.