Last week has not been a good one. My boyfriend injured his back at work and I had to pick up the slack on the homefront. You would think that with only two of us and a few cats there wouldn’t be THAT much work to do, but you’d be wrong. We had oodles of gardening chores planned and the brunt of them fell on me. I promptly did what any person with such options would do, and recruited my currently unemployed brother to do the heavy lifting.

Together we mowed and raked the grass, aerated (the manual way, read HARD), overseeded with Eco-Lawn (a grass that promises to be wonderful, can’t wait to find out), and dug a huge trench. All of the above translated to about six hours of backbreaking labor between the TWO of us. And I work out pretty consistently, people. I pay my dues in countless push-ups, partial chin-ups and many curls, dips and squats. And *I* almost threw my back out after raking for less than an hour.  Yes we have a corner lot, so a bit more square footage to cover, but much of my backyard is also a concrete pad which you’d think would offset the grass a bit. And we’re not even done yet – there’s still weeding to be done, and raspberries to plant, and tomatoes to take outside as they’re ready to be hardened off now, and all of this is suddenly my sole responsibility. Now, if we were talking laundry or vacuuming or something, I’d just do the bare minimum required to keep us afloat and wait for life to settle down before catching up, but gardening waits for nobody, so done it got. Of course the laundry, vacuuming and cooking also didn’t magically take a vacation, and the fact that I can’t handle some plants, cats, and a house is precisely the reason why the thought of having children terrifies me.

Oh and did I mention the BUGS? The first bugs of the season are always a unique and special thrill. I seem to become a bit desensitized by the end of each summer, to the point where seeing the odd wee insect no longer elicits terrified screams that scare the neighborhood children, but the first few times I see a spider, all bets are off. They might be good for my yard, but they’re certainly bad for my adrenal glands and vocal cords. And I have no idea what they’re eating in my organic (read: disorganized with weeds) yard, but whatever it is it’s doing their body good. That sucker below is about the size of my palm.

Work has been its own set of pleasures this week what with the new IT department handily installing some new anti-virus software that’s making all our programs run like a turtle on valium. Again, normally I’d take this with a grain of salt and wait for someone louder than me to complain until it got resolved (the office is FULL of candidates), but wasting half my life waiting for some app to open for a half an hour has been just adding to my joie de vivre. On that note, I keep hearing about all these ‘trends’ in the workplace, like lessee, working from home and getting compensated for the value delivered rather than the hours put in, but do I see any of them here? Nope.  All I see is if I finish my work early, I get more work. Not leaving early, not more money to stay, but more work. Guess what that motivates me to do? If you guessed something along surfing the net, congratulations. I’ll save this rant for another day though, lots more to say on this subject.

Warning: If you’re squeamish, stop reading now….

The only cool thing that’s come out of the last few days involves me spending three hours browsing the Body Worlds Exhibit that’s currently in Calgary at the Science Centre. It was interesting and disturbing in equal measures, and has given me much food for thought.  I’ve always had a strong interest in how our bodies work, but am incredibly not competent at handling actual injury and blood so have never wanted to pursue a medical career. The thought of seeing the inner workings of the body was fascinating to me, and off I went to spend a pleasant afternoon looking at skinned bodies and medical slices of organs.  I have never had any fear of death or dying (provided it’s not cruel and unusual of course), so I didn’t expect the odd mix of reverence and vague disgust I felt while being surrounded by flayed bodies.  I will certainly tell you that a career as a pathologist would be out. (Actually I’ve often wondered about people who work as pathologists. No matter how much you like to solve the mystery of someone’s death it’s a disturbing and often disgusting profession to be in. How do you get the smell out of your skin and hair at the end of the day? But I digress.)

The exhibit is an odd mixture of posed bodies with anatomical diagrams, slices and samples of various organs and their functions and pseudo-philosophical posters on the walls ruminating on everything from consciousness to the existence of a soul.  It definitely has some great points, the crystal clear workings of the organs, muscles, tendons and nerves that make up our bodies, the amazing depictions of what cancer actually looks like, or what smoking does to a lung (not as much as coal mining), and something that I found very impactful – a slice of an obese man. The visual of the layer of fat that surrounds his midsection is vivid enough, but it’s seeing how his internal organs are displaced and overtaken by body fat that was the strong visual to process.  The artistic and voyeuristic aspect of the exhibit is the part that’s harder to swallow. On one hand you have documented, consenting donors that offered their bodies for education. On the other hand you’re looking at human bodies, skinned, whimsically posed, often with odd bits of skin intact – the eyebrows, belly buttons, hair and there is some discomfort with that, no doubt about it.

I was surprised at how many young kids were there with their parents. Of course they handled it better than the adults did, showing true fascination for everything and asking pretty intelligent questions. Still I figured there was a minimum age in most parent’s head below which the exhibit would simply not be productive but tiring, like eight or something. I was wrong. In fact the cross-section of Calgary that made it there was pretty impressive – all ages, all genders, all types of people made their way to check out the workings of our bodies and ponder the contradiction between a dissection and a work of art.  If you think you can handle it – I’d recommend it.

We moved into our current house in March two years ago. What with all the unpacking and sorting out bus routes there was absolutely no gardening done that first summer. We did reflect on the fact that the flowers are lovely, and clearly someone with experience planted them – there was something blooming all summer long.

The second summer was the summer of benign neglect. We cut the grass mmm… twice and in our infinite wisdom decided to leave the clippings on the grass as compost. Yeah, well that only works when the clippings are not say, six inches long. What happened in our reality is that the clippings blocked out the sun and wilted much of the grass. The flower beds were weeded sporadically and not thoroughly and everything wildly bloomed and died without any interference.

This year I determined things would be different. Armed with photographic evidence and knowledgeable co-workers I got a load of advice on yard and garden maintenance, and on the first snow-free weekend scheduled my brother to come and help rescue the yard.

neglected flowerbed

yep, it's a disgrace

another poor bed

I was ready with all the implements of a well-equipped gardener: brand-new sheepskin gloves, secateurs, a rake and several garbage bags. I drank an imaginary brave beer and went to town. The first garden bed was a great success. I trimmed all the dead foliage, pruned all the bushes back, raked up all the debris leaving groomed black soil instead of the brownish messy tangle that was there. The second bed went much the same.

The third, fourth and fifth beds were in the backyard. The sunny, warm, welcoming back yard. It was such a beautiful day and every single spider in the vicinity was in complete agreement. I saw the first one sunning himself on a large rock, but it was just a baby, and I was determined to get over my fear. He scuttled away like he’s supposed to (in my books anyhow), and all was well. I was congratulating myself on handling the whole situation maturely and without undue hysterics. Then I saw his big brother. On the same rock that the little one was on – this one was at least three times his size, with gross big legs and excellent momentum. Unfortunately his sense of direction propelled him directly towards me, and with a girly shriek I moved quickly out of the way of danger. My resolve was shaken but not gone. I simply decided that bed can wait.

The rest of flower bed clean up went splendidly. I did what I do best and offered constructive suggestions from the safety of ten feet, while my brother finished all the work in my new sheepskin gloves. The beds look great, by the way.

restored flowerbed

much better

Since my backyard is still covered in treacherous snow, I was meditating on my garden to be and all its future residents. Specifically the uninvited kinds, even if they’re beneficial. More specifically, bugs, spiders and… worms. Confession time, I have a borderline phobia regarding all of the above and have spent quite a bit of time fretting over the balance of my desire for fresh picked vegetables against my deep conviction that things that slither, creep and crawl are all out to get me.

I wasn’t always like this, I distinctly remember fishing with worms as a pre-schooler with my older cousin, and getting a kick out of daddy long-legs ginormous legs when one chanced to come by the playground. I don’t even have a great traumatic story that forever instilled the fear of these creatures, unless they’re SO traumatic that I’ve suppressed them. Hah. I do though have a ton of stories of my unconscious being much quicker than my conscious mind when it comes to reacting to imminent threats to my life. Like the time I discovered that ‘my feet grew into the ground’ is not just an idle expression but an utter truth.  It was after a summer downpour and a friend and I were ready to go out. Upon exiting the house my feet did exactly what I thought was a literary term, and planted so hard into the ground I waved my arms around trying not to face plant into the sidewalk. While I was flailing and pondering if I was struck with some muscle ailment I realized that right in front of me was a big fat wriggling worm desperately trying to crawl across the patio stone.  I had no clue my brain was that quick at assessing the situation, and clearly going ‘aw, hell nah – that’s as close as you get’.  I still have NO idea why worms? What did they ever do to me? At least some people share the spider predilection, although I doubt many would be willing to crash a vehicle to avoid one dangling from their rearview mirror and descending evilly down. If it wasn’t for my hysterically laughing friend who dispatched the small but aggressive invader the accident may not have been preventable. Now I scan the cars thoroughly in case one should lurk in some corner.  You know, just waiting to pounce. And eat me.

Now, thankfully I’m not afraid of some insects, otherwise this garden proposition would remain exactly one big fantasy. I am not afraid of wasps, bees, or anything with wings. I’m not afraid of slugs or caterpillars and I only experience mild disgust at beetles, aphids, crickets, etc.  I actively like lizards, snakes and other scaly things and rodents, bunnies and mammals in general are pretty cute. So in order to make this garden a reality, I’m implementing a variety of measures to protect myself from accidental contact with what I’m sure are nature’s little mistakes.

First there will be minimal skin exposure, we’re talking long pants, socks, shoes, long-sleeved shirts, gloves. It would not be extreme to say that I’ve considered a full on Tyvek haz-mat suit, but rejected it for aesthetic reasons. Secondly there will be the judicious spray of OFF of some bug repellent equivalent, although my experience has been that spiders are too dumb to be repelled by it.  I may not get any sun this summer, but I’ll certainly prevent a spider bite. Shudder. I’m sure there will be an inevitable amount of trowel flinging while involuntary screams scare the neighborhood children at the sight of something slithering, crawling or heck, sleeping, but I am also a big believer in the power of desensitization so hopefully by August either the neighborhood or me will be somewhat desensitized.

Photo source: www.bloodydisgusting.com