wipe out

Yesterday I bought two yards of compost in really big and cripplingly heavy bags. I took them off the stack and put them in the cart and then put them in the trunk of my car. Then I went for groceries. Today I wrestled the compost out of my trunk and to the places where I could open the bags and bail it onto my garden in manageable scoops. I dug out an old bed, lined it with plastic and filled in with new soil and compost and a hydrangea start I managed not to kill from my mother's garden. I weeded. I poked around for my little transcendental strawberries. I foiled the slugs. I have spent too much time wrasslin' with way too much weight for me and grubbling around in extremely taxing positions, both in the garden and that fucking not-a-tub, without reopening my slashed finger, and bleeding all over, but so whupped I slipped major, major, majorly as I was getting out of that fucking not-a-tub.

Were it not for the handles bolted to the wall I could very well have killed myself. I'm always telling you how unlovely this bathing in my not-a-bathtub is, but never has it been unlovelier than tonight. Since I was holding on to one of those handles, I only slammed my right knee very hard on the cabinet. I did not smack my head full force on anything, but, whoa, I sure would have, but for that handle.

I don't care what it does to my reputation as a night owl. I'm going to bed.

So, well, call me if we nuke anybody, okay?

And if you don't find me some help with this bathtub thing, it honestly could be lethal.