Alas! for my poor spinach

So my spinach seems particularly ill-fated this year.  I planted Bordeaux, a variety highly recommended by our local seed maven, and some combination of wet and cold and cold and wet and my procrastination led to seedlings that went straight to bolting.  However, I did not despair.  Also courtesy of our local seed maven, I have enough spinach to feed a (very small) army for a season, so yesterday I planted two more varieties.  Bloomsdale Longstanding and something weird that started with an "L," I think.  Lawa-something?  Anyway.  I had just watered the garden, so I sprinkled them both in the little square I'd set aside for spinach and called it good.  And I'm sure it was, until today, around noon, when the heavens opened.  Now I'm sure all the tiny spinach seeds are huddled up against the pebbles edging the bed, shuddering and crying, and I'll get one of those weird rows that results from such circumstances.  Oh, well.  I've always got more spinach seeds.

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.

Last Ditch

Because writing something and hitting "publish" might make me feel halfway human again.  Or, ok, at least human enough to remember that earphones work much better to play music when there's music for them to play.

Perhaps it's just the end of winter.  The drift out the window behind the house is still waist deep, or so I'm guessing.  I have no desire to empirically verify.  The feeling I had earlier this month, that things were moving underground, feels like too much work to maintain now.

Bleak.  The sky is deep blue behind the bare branches, the maple buds are starting to turn red, but I don't really care.  There's crap on the floor (metaphorical, not literal, relax.  Wait, unless you count guinea pig crap, which I found in my rubber boots earlier).  I spent a certain amount of time picking it up, getting angrier and angrier, not at the people who left it there, necessarily, but that the crap exists in the first place.  Things need to be picked up.  I hate that.

I thought about depression, earlier.  I wore my rubber boots because I knew outside would be better, but tying my sneakers was too much effort.  Maybe not, though.  Maybe repression.  Or burnout.  Or the low after a crisis.  I've been fighting to find the words for weeks now, showing up on my therapist's couch (actually, she has these kickass purple leather chairs) to say where's the fun?  Where's the harvest?  Why does life never let up?  Where's my vacation, dammit?  I feel like there's no give and take here, no rhythm, just life sucking everything I've got.  Loneliness, and the demand that I show up with all the right answers, and a shiny face.

Maybe I'm being too dramatic.  I'm going to go sit on the steps and catch the last rays of the sun.  Maybe that's all I need.

Duly noted

See, people?  Do you see what happens when I add one single navy item to my wardrobe?  It ruins the whole thing!  Now I have to rethink everything!  In other news, it takes a special kind of person to overbook herself, out of a pathological need to make everyone happy, and then work herself into a pouty swivet because she's overbooked.  Said pouty swivet has so far involved coffee caramel ice cream, a sip of last night's wine, and the decision to pretend that my hair looks just fine without a shower, thank you.
In other news, blogger recognizes neither "pouty" nor "swivet" as a word, and there's a tiny tab down at the bottom of my screen, just above the clock, that says, "Complain."  Yes, thanks, I think I shall.