Funny thing I’ve noticed: when I start my day obsessively toiling about in my paranoia-propelled impending-food-shortage garden–in which I am planting roughly ten times more than two people will need for a year, because chances are only one in ten plants will survive my flailing ineptitude–I wind up too exhausted to write. Or complete a chore. Or skillfully breathe. Probably because when I say “obsessively”, I mean roughly 8-10 hours a day…this is a container garden, by the way. With 40 full containers and counting.
It’s really not fun anymore, but every time I go to the grocery store and they are out of fucking LEMONS, I start revving up some turbo-powered paranoia ideation and become convinced that, hell no–8 squash plants are nearly enough (never mind the 8 tomatoes, 3 tomatillos, 6 cucumber, 6 okra, 5 cauliflower, about a dozen beet and another dozen carrots, 6 broccoli, 6 green pepper, 4 cantaloupe, 7 cherry, a huge blueberry bush, a tiny probably useless lemon plant, 8 red pepper, arugula, butter lettuce, brussel sprouts, spinach, 5 different types of beans (protein. It’s important) and easily a dozen different herbs…for two of us. And yes–I know that is more than 40 containers, Mr. McMath, but that is because I’ve a shit load of little plantlets yet to be transplanted.
The point is I wind up fucking exhausted and unless there really is a huge famine just around the corner, my priorities are really fucked. So, I’m flipping things around and writing first. Then I can freely work my bony fingers to the bone, giggling maniacally about how rich I’ll be in the starving future, when I can use my bountiful produce as currency. Just kidding. I think.
Anyway, hopefully that will get back back on track of a blog a day, at least. Even if the baby cauliflowers are screaming…