Mud season is no joke

Evidence of Utah's red dirt brought in on the winds of a recent snow storm.

There is dirt everywhere in my life. It gathers around the edges of my rugs and baseboards. It dangles off my dog's chest hair and settles in between the pads of his paws making him sound like a lady walking across a marble floor with high heels wherever he goes. Grit ruins every barefoot step I take in the kitchen. The treads on all our shoes are caked with mud. One forgotten item on the way out the door leaves tracks that will take 20 minutes to clean. I look down at my pants on the way to a meeting and, somehow, mud is smeared across the back of my calves. Like I sat there and let some kid make a mud pie on my leg, that's how bad it is after I walk through the parking lot at Sawyer's school. I don't know how it gets there. I leave the vacuum plugged in. We take our shoes off at the door. It doesn't help. The mud infiltrates every corner of our lives. You hear them talk about mud season. I'm here to attest — it's no laughing matter.