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Jun. 6th, 2006 02:12 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
urocyonIt has, once again, been demonstrated that I am not nearly as strong as my Aunt Sally's friend Melinda. (Erm, yes, I should know this by now--or take steps to correct it--but I just keep surprising myself.) Melinda makes hefting 100-lb. sacks of horse feed look easy. I just lugged in a 75L bag of potting soil, doing my back a great deal of good in the process. "I think I should have waited for help," as I tried to balance it on a trolley to roll it out to the cab rank, huffing. Random old lady: "Do you think so?"
At least I did have the sense not to buy five bags just to get a discount, this time. (Had it been three, I may well have.) There is also a standard willow tree. The cab driver got a good laugh, at any rate.
A tank top with built-in bra is not the best thing to wear when transporting huge plastic bags of soil, unless they are Super Puncture Proof or you want to take another shower. I learned this when a leak filled up the back of the shirt, hoisting the sack onto a shoulder and carried it around the back of the house. *scratch*
This sort of thing happens when I detour past QD (just to have a look, ostensibly) on the way to the grocery store. We may not have tea, but we certainly do have lots of soil to fill the new baskets to plant the new plants in, with the new trowel. It may well have something to do with my general "Moderation--what's that?" approach.
That said, the main sop to "I'd better take it easy today", after spending all day on my feet yesterday, is shaping up to be not doing (much) more cleaning. The dust and dander level is pretty bad, but I managed to throw my back out while not wearing a dust mask yesterday, and got my newest addition to the RSI collection (plantar fasciitis, possibly with a heel spur, but I'm not about to get it X-rayed to find out) acting up again. This sort of stunt is getting old. I think I really am turning into my Nana, who couldn't even stay in the bed for more than three hours at a stretch. No more wrestling of junk on the patio today, either. I got irked at it the day I came home, and managed to send the old chest of drawers which is still waiting for the White Van Men crashing down, with me in tow. Nana also apparently felt compelled to climb up on the roof when she was eight months pregnant--while Grandaddy was at work, no less--and couldn't get back down. This is probably not the best behavior to emulate, but it seems to be part of the wiring.
The sounds drifting down from upstairs are refreshingly normal after the last bunch up there. I haven't yet heard any curses screamed at the kids or light-rattling dance music. They did fence off the back, but I don't even get the idea that they're likely to shriek obscenities at me when I get around to asking if it's OK if I plant runner beans on the trellising on the other side of our wall, where we had them before. There should be plenty to go around. The last woman up there didn't exactly invite conversation, for all her sucking up to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
vatine. (Yeah, that was subtle.)
Now the sun--and a bit of gardening work--beckons. It's hard to avoid the sun in VA*, so I'm going to turn a funky, sickly shade of yellow pretty soon without a bit of effort. That usually only happens around November. OTOH, it takes approximately three rays of sunlight to turn me coppery--an advantage of the Tutelo thrown in. Skim milk-->lobster red-->coppery within a week. At least my mother has stopped laughing at my managing to turn out so pale, and joked that maybe someone knew I'd need it to avoid rickets here. :)
* Especially if one feels compelled to spend all afternoon outside with the hedgeclippers, and the like. When my stepmother sent us out in the afternoon sun to pick beans, I thought it was a form of child abuse. Not so good for the plants, either.
At least I did have the sense not to buy five bags just to get a discount, this time. (Had it been three, I may well have.) There is also a standard willow tree. The cab driver got a good laugh, at any rate.
A tank top with built-in bra is not the best thing to wear when transporting huge plastic bags of soil, unless they are Super Puncture Proof or you want to take another shower. I learned this when a leak filled up the back of the shirt, hoisting the sack onto a shoulder and carried it around the back of the house. *scratch*
This sort of thing happens when I detour past QD (just to have a look, ostensibly) on the way to the grocery store. We may not have tea, but we certainly do have lots of soil to fill the new baskets to plant the new plants in, with the new trowel. It may well have something to do with my general "Moderation--what's that?" approach.
That said, the main sop to "I'd better take it easy today", after spending all day on my feet yesterday, is shaping up to be not doing (much) more cleaning. The dust and dander level is pretty bad, but I managed to throw my back out while not wearing a dust mask yesterday, and got my newest addition to the RSI collection (plantar fasciitis, possibly with a heel spur, but I'm not about to get it X-rayed to find out) acting up again. This sort of stunt is getting old. I think I really am turning into my Nana, who couldn't even stay in the bed for more than three hours at a stretch. No more wrestling of junk on the patio today, either. I got irked at it the day I came home, and managed to send the old chest of drawers which is still waiting for the White Van Men crashing down, with me in tow. Nana also apparently felt compelled to climb up on the roof when she was eight months pregnant--while Grandaddy was at work, no less--and couldn't get back down. This is probably not the best behavior to emulate, but it seems to be part of the wiring.
The sounds drifting down from upstairs are refreshingly normal after the last bunch up there. I haven't yet heard any curses screamed at the kids or light-rattling dance music. They did fence off the back, but I don't even get the idea that they're likely to shriek obscenities at me when I get around to asking if it's OK if I plant runner beans on the trellising on the other side of our wall, where we had them before. There should be plenty to go around. The last woman up there didn't exactly invite conversation, for all her sucking up to
vatine. (Yeah, that was subtle.)Now the sun--and a bit of gardening work--beckons. It's hard to avoid the sun in VA*, so I'm going to turn a funky, sickly shade of yellow pretty soon without a bit of effort. That usually only happens around November. OTOH, it takes approximately three rays of sunlight to turn me coppery--an advantage of the Tutelo thrown in. Skim milk-->lobster red-->coppery within a week. At least my mother has stopped laughing at my managing to turn out so pale, and joked that maybe someone knew I'd need it to avoid rickets here. :)
* Especially if one feels compelled to spend all afternoon outside with the hedgeclippers, and the like. When my stepmother sent us out in the afternoon sun to pick beans, I thought it was a form of child abuse. Not so good for the plants, either.
