Em writes her beginner's this morning.
Having her own car was one thing.
Actually driving it is completely different.
My ass hurts.
More specifically, the muscles in my gluteous very-maximus are singing in pain from my gardening adventures yesterday afternoon.
I started in the garden nearest our neighbour's bank of lilac bushes, so while I was digging in the dirt, hauling out weeds with a vehemence that surprised even me, and encountering all sorts of bugs and worms, (which is fine, just no snakes please) I was at least basking in the gorgeous scent of lilacs brought to me on the lovely breeze.
In two hours I accomplished what I had planned.
Completely cleaning a spot that had been riddled with weeds and dandelions as high as my knees, and planting a piece of our wild rose bush there as it has taken over our front yard.
We put another piece at the bottom of our property.
Stephen dug the holes.
I brought the fresh soil.
Keith complained to me that he was bored as I was sitting in the garden, hauling and digging the offensive weeds.
Big mistake.
Because now, in addition to cutting the grass today, he will be digging a hole for the flowering crab because it must be planted before we leave for Montreal tomorrow morning, and, he is removing all the rocks from the side garden because one time they looked nice, now they just provide housing for the illegal weeds.
Off they go.
And there are LOTS of them.
Next time, I bet Keith keeps his boredom to himself.
I had lots of time to reflect upon the state of our gardens yesterday.
Leading me to conclude that we put in too many gardens too fast.
Or rather, Stephen did.
Because until this summer my interest in gardening stopped once the gardening supplies -- plants, dirt, implements-- were purchased.
Granted, I was always ready with directives, suggestions, supervising.
Yes. I left it all for my obsessive compulsive husband.
I am terrible.
I know.
Having actually taken the time to do the gardening in this past week, I am astounded at how much work is involved in maintaining gardens.
It's no wonder Stephen was overwhelmed and frustrated.
So I am publicly apologizing for my lack of interest and participation.
I'll try to make up for it this summer.
Now, unlike Stephen, I don't look at all the gardens and pull a MacCaulay Culkin at how much work there is to do.
I tend to decide what piece I will work on in the time I have and work to complete that specific task.
Trying to be realistic about balancing my academic work with my digging in the dirt play.
Gardening is both a form of exercise, as my muscles can attest this morning, and therapeutic.
And I refuse to get worked up about it.
Abjectly refuse.
Cell phones continue to plague my life, act as the bane of my existence.
Em calls me yesterday at lunch time and says,
I have something to tell you and you're not going to like it.
A MILLION things ran through my head that could come from this child and meet that rather broad criteria.
Turns out Miss-I-Must-Carry-My-Cellphone-In-My-Back-Pocket-So-I-Can-Use-It-When-I-Am-In-The-Bathroom-During-Class dropped another, yes another, as in the second time, as in number two, numero deux cellphone in the toilet.
Another cellphone meeting it's end in a toilet in the girl's bathroom at FHS.
She was calling to deliver this sad news on her friend Kyle's cell phone.
Insert Marge Simpson UMMMMMM here. . .
Off to the mall after supper it was.
Dropped Keith off at work.
And trudged into Telus -- our version of Cheers! because everyone there knows our name.
I hate going to Telus.
It's like a vortex for time.
So while Em sorted her toilet inspired debacle, I sat with a friend and drank my venti Starbucks mild, the only thing to prevent me from falling asleep at the wheel during our drive home.
Leaving long enough to put my signature on some papers before returning to said seat area and encountering a former student, who chatted with me until Miss Em had finished her phone haggling.
She got an IPhone.
Which means nothing to me.
But a lot to her and her friends.
Doesn't matter.
I didn't have to pay.
We're off to Montreal tomorrow, but not before we run the errands-that-always-preclude-our-going-to-Montreal.
Primarily groceries.
Wouldn't want the little kidlets to starve while we were away now would we?
Packing this evening.
At the sign of a suitcase, Tikka and Frankie immediately move into more-agitated-than-usual because they know nothing good ever comes from the bringing out of the suitcases.
Meaning I'll spend the post packing period trying to assuage their hurt feelings.
Dog therapy.
Who knew the breadth of my talents.
Title Lyric: Drop the Phone by Shy Child
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