Laud me, world, for I have planted many things & moved a lot of dirt & I have not ripped up my hands. I feel very accomplished.
It started with the dentist appointment. (No, seriously.)
I had to drive to the dentist, and got me out of the house, see? Since I was out anyway, I decided knock another thing off my list of to-do lists and took a long overdue trip to the home-improvement store. As one does.
(I avoid home improvement stores because they are hazardous to my wallet AND generally overwhelming. First, they’re full of tempting toys & tools (Copper pipe! I could do something with that. Mmm, new bath tub. Someday I want one of those. Ooo, TWINE…)
Also, going there means all the unfinished (nay, be honest, barely even PLANNED) house projects in the back of my brain come spilling into conscious awareness. Big one-two punch right there.
So anyway, I tend to put off tools & so on shopping until I have a huge list of needs, like wasp spray & sand, bird seed & toilet cleaner & light bulbs & door hardware & cheez balls. And then I end up having to go all over the whole store & it’s exhausting.
This time, the next-project list was actually not too long, and I was very good and only got things specifically on the list. The bath tub section wasn’t nearly as distracting as usual because a couple was having a low-key argument about inline water heaters in that aisle, which kinda put a damper on the browsing idea.
The problem started when I rewarded myself by impulse shopping in the garden center.
I came home with not only all the supplies needed for responding to the end of Chipmunk Detente (little buggers decided to den down under the edge of the foundation since they can’t get inside any longer) but also 12 plants, a bunch of potting soil & the new season’s hose hardware.
This was a good test of my theory about my safe-hands limit on planting. I can now confirm, that limit is 12 plants. (Doesn’t matter how big or small the pots are, or if they’re bulb sets or whatever. I can dig 12 holes w/o destroying my hands, knees and/or feet.)
Last year, I couldn’t revoke even one potted plant without ripping open at least two fingertips and one knee, along with one or both heels getting torn up. (I mean, I planted things anyway, it was just…not the smartest thing I’ve ever done. And I didn’t plant nearly as much stuff as I wanted.)
Today I dug a big hole under the outside stairs & refilled it w/squirrel spikes & gravel, moved multiple buckets of fill dirt, replaced hoses & connectors & sprayers, filled the Box O’Dirt raised gardening bed AND planted 2 tomatoes, 6 peppers, & 4 new lavenders (to replace the ones that didn’t survive the winter because who knows why)
Plus I watered everything I planted over the weekend along with the new plants. Three cheers for the magic combo of wearing nitrile gloves AND gardening gloves, plus silicon bumpers on the iffiest fingers.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m wiped-out exhausted, and ibuprofen has been scheduled. But. BUT! I’m still able to type this post, and it’s only overused muscle aches, not “THIS IS INJURY” pain.
I haven’t been able to play in the dirt this exuberantly since 2020. The eczema started early 2021, and as with every new surprise my body throws at me, it takes a lot of experimentation to work out a full & proper set of accommodation protocols.
It’s nice to be at the “Huzzah, it works!” part of the accommodation process.
Really, REALLY nice.
OH, look. I can put things at the bottom of my posts. Yay, now things learned. Behold, more me things: