Remember how the how purpose of the garden was to provide therapeutic relaxation and a zen-like quality to my life?
The last few times I have left the garden, I didn't just leave with produce. Instead, I have carried rashes, bites, and, in one case, a swollen hand that could be traced back to neither a bite nor a rash. It was...disturbing...
...the swelling started Friday morning and lasted until just this morning, when I was finally able to look at my hand without being reminded of Minnie Mouse, and, I still have no earthly idea what caused it.
(As an aside, when did my hands start looking like those of an eighty-year-old woman? Fuck sake, friends, this is embarassing.)
Anyhoodle, I am now on the hunt for a full-on hazmat suit to wear while working in the garden. I am also buying stock in this spray...
It's a damn good thing that I am able to enjoy the fruits of my labors, otherwise I might just lock the garden gate and scratch my way to a new summer hobby.
In the event that you don't hear from me for awhile, you might want to suggest to Hugh that he look for my body in the garden.