June 09, 2008

Best Stressed

This weekend was one of the best I’ve had in a while. I’m usually fried from picking up shifts at the House of Frapp, doing laundry and running all over hell doing menial errands—but this weekend was lovely. I’m not used to days off that are days… off. They’re more like “days where I don’t have sit at a desk while I work.” But this weekend: nice. Hot as balls, yes, but productive without being overwhelming. Saturday was even restful. And holy handbags, did I ever need rest.

As one stressor leaves and ten take its place, I’m happy to say that Dibs, the Jackieness and myself will have a lovely apartment of our very own come July 7. This means cleaning and packing and moving and a constant line of triple-shots because just thinking about it gives me a nap attack. My body has an inverse reaction to stress and handles it the same way it does sugar—a small burst of frenetic energy followed by a three-hour coma. This is the way my essays were written in school; I’d write an outline and then fall into a dead sleep for the entire afternoon, wake up at 7 for a dinner of monster brownies and coffee and produce hardcopy genius by 2 AM.

Man, I wouldn’t do that again if you paid me; almost makes moving seem easy.

So anyway, there might be some whining of the “guess what I found in the crannies of my closet” or “do you KNOW how much 30 back issues of Living weigh?” ilk, but once we have taken up residence, I should be much more like my usual level self. Until then: commence simultaneous joy and apprehension… GO! (Zzzzz…)

One thing I did that I wasn’t supposed to do on Saturday was tend the garden, because I was meant to be preening my non-essentials for storage. Instead, I ripped the rosebush stalks from their beds, annoyed that the last green sprig had browned and crisped over in a single week. Whatever; dead to me. I also took out the recently added purple phlox, because I forgot one of the key elements of phlox: it sprawls. It was getting all octopus-arms with the surrounding plants to the point of harassment, so they moved to the side of the house (where the only rosebush that has ever bloomed, a red climber, is already halfway up the trellis). I filled the rosebush (ptui! ptui!) hole at the top right with a flourishing hosta that has never needed so much as a sidelong glance in the way of encouragement, which I rewarded with a feature in the back row. We’ll show those fancy-toity roses how to make a rock garden, won’t we, hardy perennials?



I bought more wormwood to encourage the wee patch from last year, and also added more dianthus of several colors here, and in a clump by the tree for symmetry. The balloon flowers are back, one on either side of the bugleweed, which has calmed down the sprouting and is enjoying its summer resting period. I had to add a bunch of new topsoil to even the ground after replanting the balloon flower (lest it be strangled by bugleweed or overshadowed by a hungry mum), which added much-needed ballast to the sedum, which is growing like it’s snorting spinach. Those black-eyed-Susans surrounding the tree are ready to bloom any minute; it’s funny how they’re the superpower now, but come August they’ll be crippled under the weight of those two unassuming mums.



OK, I’m done blathering about greenery. I just have to do something to keep my mind of my closet and five hours I’ll spend therein, sorting things I never wear… from the.. things I might wea… Zzzzz.

3 comments:

crdrue said...

I'm totally into the frenetic activity/coma stages of writing essays. It's sick. I want to crawl under a giant rock and hide, forever.

crdrue said...

(by "into" I mean I'm in the middle of it, not that I enjoy it)

Sarah Beedoo said...

You dig it. With some majors, you pretty much have to. And then you graduate and don't write anything for a year because you don't have to.