I have well documented that the volume and weight of dirt confounds me. I never know what the right size pot is going to be, I don’t know how much dirt should go in it, and I clearly have no idea how to load a car.
But when I went to get the dirt for my pots, I thought maybe, just maybe, I was guesstimating it right.
I mean, it can’t even be called estimating when one is imagining the size of the wine barrels in one’s head and then eying the bags of dirt on the pallets and hoping that they’re picturing it right. I did, actually, do quite well in Math in high school and college, and given a set of measurements, I indeed know the equation to apply to the situation.
But when I dumped the first 1.5 cubic feet of dirt into the first wine barrel, it became very clear to me that I had severely overestimated. See, I had seven bags of dirt, but one bag filled more than half the barrel.
I’d like to say that I used only words suitable for children at this realization, but those of you who read me closely probably know better than that. I hope there were, indeed, no children on the other complex balconies. I do believe I used a compound phrase, a series of words that, when strung together, indicated, at the very least, my extreme displeasure at the realization that I would, indeed, have three bags of dirt left over when all was said and done.
Yes, that’s three bags. And no, I have not yet figured out what to do with them.