Landscape spring cleaning has ensued, so I’m going to have sweaty underwear for a while.
Social media momentum depends on such clickbait.
Surely there is a market for my used underwear, no? Inflation is killing us, gas prices are killing us, this economy is killing us – thanks to fuckwad Trump. Once upon a time I could have garnered a semi-decent living from this sort of thing, but OnlyFans arrived in my lifetime twenty-five years too late. Used underwear shots are about all I can muster these days, and it’s more than anyone wants to see, but I don’t care. This is life. This is reality. This is the here and now.
Yard clean-up has always been a meditative exercise for me. It brings me back outside, where the only sounds are distant lawnmowers, birdsong, and the occasional clawing of squirrel nails on our wooden fence. For well over a decade, I had the same game-plan for the clean-up – start in the side yard and make my way slowly around the perimeter from the side yard to the backyard. This year I’m moving from section to section to keep things interesting, jumping across the yard to remove the debris around the Lenten rose first, then the fern stand beneath the dogwood where our Narcissus are showing buds finally. I’ve pruned the lace-leaf Japanese maple by the pool filter so Andy can access that easier, and I’ll hit the front yard hydrangeas next.
Also new these past few years is a slower rate of this whole process. Previously I’d tried to bang it all out in a single weekend, but the body is not what it used to be, and protecting my back and winter-rested/unexercised muscles by taking my time is a welcome change.
From sweaty underwear to geriatric diatribe – I love the rollercoaster way this blog ebbs and flows.
