I Screwed You All Over Yesterday…

…in favor of backing up the files (photos, music, blah) on my computer because it’s getting ready to give up the iGhost.

Photos alone took 8.5 hours. By the time that was done I wanted nothing to do with the damn machine. Then Jack Bauer came along, and I got into my footie pajamas, ditched my best friend via email, made popcorn, and curled up on my husband for a lovely, relaxing evening of watching people get shot, blown up, and yelled at.

Forgive me.

So about this garden.

I was strolling this yard before we bought the house, and I happened to notice that all of the landscaping is new. The boxwoods are tiny, many of them were already dead and needed yanking, and there was a lot of mulch set out around everything.

I look at all of this and I think, hmmmm. Pre-prepped land. Instant garden. Tomato plants between each liriope, and pepper plants near the front steps. We can use this now, and it lets us get food in the ground and prepare a larger area in the rest of the yard for next year.

I tell Rich my plans, and the faintest hint of a sneer passes over his face before he says, “What’s wrong with the way it is? It looks nice. I’d rather not have vegetables in the front yard.”

I say, “Vegetable plants are pretty. Especially with vegetables on them.”

He says, “I’d really rather not, and there’s an entire acre. There’s plenty of space.”

We went to corners.

So I came back to him and told him about how it seemed to be an easier option as less heavy digging would be required.

And then he said…

“I was wondering how you’re going to have a garden this year anyway. You can’t dig. You can’t survive without painkillers. How are you going to dig a garden?”

I told him he was digging the sod up and tilling, but that I had planned to sit on the ground to dig the small holes for the plants with a tiny trowel.

Apparently that’s not an option. Apparently I could even severely injure myself turning a trowel in the dirt enough to stick a wee pepper plant in the ground. Or even a seed. While sitting. On my ass.

Friends, this is Not Cool.

First you need to understand Us. I’m not going to say we don’t fight, because we do. We don’t fight often, but when we do we can spank anyone who thinks they do a good job fighting. Nuh uh. We win. The reason we’re so good at it is because we actually do have passion for each other, and that generally gets applied to the ugly moments as well. Most of the time, though, we resolve situations, or don’t, as the three year olds we are.

Especially when we know the other person is correct.

So I turned my back on him and walked away, saying, “Neh neh neh neh neh. Neh. Meh wa neh.”

Yeah, I was doing the head/shoulder waggle and the sneer too.

I have waited for him to leave the room on occasion and then jumped up and down, flipping the bird with both hands in his direction. I have turned around in time to catch the tail end of silent insults hurled at me behind my back. The difference is that Rich deliberately gets caught, and I’m enough of an infant that I avoid being seen.

So, the garden issue is not resolved yet. He doesn’t want me to end up hospitalized, and I don’t want to surrender yet another thing I love to this fucked up back. We’re back in our corners until I get the seed trays and soil set up and start sticking seeds in them. Then this will all begin again. Because dammit, I know I can find a way to do this without hurting myself. I almost always find a way.

Which leads me to the latest bicker. I’m writing a book. A novel. I don’t DO fiction, but I was driving along today alone, able to think without talking to a toddler and an infant over my shoulder for a change, and a memory surfaced pretty hard. I extrapolated on it, and I started laughing aloud. So I told Rich about it, and he informed me that I cannot, absolutely cannot, sacrifice sleep to this because if I don’t sleep I’ll become a basket case. I argued, and he interrupted, and I finally stood my ground and said, “Listen. If I write a 70,000 word novel it’ll take me a little less than a year. Most of my blog posts are about 1000 words. If I can get 2000 words a week down into this, well, it’ll be less than a year.”

I won.

Holy shit. I won. Not that he’s LETTING me do this, but good gravy, I made an argument that he couldn’t counter. I won. It’s party time.

What I’m going to do now is ask you all to help me with this. Life gets crazy around here, and I need cattle prods. I’m going to say, maybe on Wednesday when you’re letting me know what was awesome over the past week: ask me if I’ve written. If I say no, and I will be honest, I will write a post on Friday about any topic that you demand. If I get several demands I’ll close my eyes and point.

I need to do this. It’s churning in my head like a hamster on an egg beater.

Thanks, all.