(Actual) Dirty Deeds

I'm not that filthy, really.

See... I was doing some emergency brickwork repair under my deck, fixing a hole where the rain comes in (and also the cold air that seems to freeze our pipes in the winter, but that doesn't have a snappy Beatles quote that works). I was wearing the appropriate protective gloves and glasses when I started, but soon removed them to help me better squish the cement into the tight crevices where it needed to go, and well, to see - although, the sweat in my eyes and spider webs and general shadowy darkness allowed me to experience masonry repair from the Stevie Wonder perspective, but only for a few fumbling minutes.

Perhaps not surprisingly, my face and hands are now speckled and smeared with dried, crusty concrete. I have spent most of the rest of the evening feeling dirty and compulsively scrubbing at my hands with Terri's pumice stone thingee. Consequentially, my hands are raw and pink and sore, yet still disgusting and filthy - covered with less-than-attractive brown/grey liver spotty things. And my face - still decorated by grey freckles.

I foresee a full day of explaining this to my coworkers tomorrow. Argh. Ow. At least the deck is fixed (fingers crossed... *crunch*). Maybe I am that filthy after all.