In the weeds

I've never waitressed.

I've nannied, written, worked retail, lent my voice to radio campaigns, slung burgers (for two weeks; don't ask), written some more, edited, sold houses and finally, most recently, I mommy. (Also? I make verbs where no action has gone before.)

So with that kind of resume it may take you by surprise to find I've never waited tables.

But I do so want to borrow a phrase I understand is a standard among wait staff. I'm in the weeds.

You may have noticed the lack of posting 'round these parts.

We're still here. Just laundry, weeding, watering and life getting in the way of bloglife. I hope you're all walking clear paths lined with lovely flowerbeds tended by, ahem, someone other than you....

In fact some days the weeds here are so tall I can't see the garden.

Who am I kidding? Not "some days." Every day.

I pulled weeds by hand for hours upon hours this past week and all I got was this t-shirt. No, no actually, all I got was that picture of the cat in the blackberry vines and the satisfaction of knowing my intended plantings will get more nutrients, more sun, more chance to fill my canning jars and freezer shelves.

On the upside, I just joined the Loyal Order of the Glamper. Life in the weeds is pretty good when I look up from the gritty, tangled mess of roots and notice those flowers and whatnot.