Fiddling With the Edge of the Bandaid

I've been feeling the urge to write something, anything, but I don't have anything particular in mind, so y'all will have to put up with my brain-vomit once again.  So gross.  You're welcome.

Things are intense here.  They're always intense.  I waffle between seeking to cope and seeking to escape.  Coping is more realistic, obviously.  Tools, frameworks, routines.  Hiding just increases the pressure.  Also, it makes me fat.

Summer time has its own ... I won't call it a rhythm.  That almost-annoying hum in the background is the child, fracturing my concentration when I need it the most.  You know, when I'm doing the all-consuming work of checking facebook and reading blogs.

My garden is short.  I'm sure we haven't gotten rain every day, but it certainly feels like that.  The spinach went straight from seedlings to bolting.  Something's eating the kale, probably slugs.  Or snails.  Whatever it is, they've got easy access, as nothing in the garden is over two inches tall except the peas.  And the weeds.  Those are growing like ... well, you know.

Speaking of snails, I've never seen so many snails outside of California.  I wonder how the Cali snails are faring with all the dry out there.  We drown while they desiccate.  Balance?

Today offers an opportunity I have no intention of grasping.  I have a deep-seated resistance to go-carts, acquired long ago through semi-traumatic experience at Disneyland.  My brother is visiting us, and, since it's his birthday, and since, at his age, "people want experiences, not presents," we'll be heading to the go cart ... range? course?  Anyway.  I could drive a go-cart and conquer this ancient prejudice.  Somehow, in this case, I have no desire to redeem the past.