Once upon a time, when I was newly sober and grieving horribly, I spent many hours out in the yard of my little townhouse tearing at the weeds. There was something really cathartic about this endeavor. It seemed to go on forever, and I just kept my head down and kept yanking. I burned up two teapots in one day, I was so intent. Of course, I was 21 years younger then. Today's efforts need to be punctuated with frequent moments of stretching my back, and even the occasional break. But I find this to be the ideal thing to do when I am pissed off, as I have been lately. Taking it out on the weeds is ever so much better than yelling at Pickle, who keeps barking and rolling in the loose stuff and traipsing into the house, dripping little pieces of yard in her wake. I have stopped for a while this time to put Bandaids on war wounds on both my hands, one from the rake, one from the trimmers I am using to ferret out the low-lying weeds the weed-whacker missed. I now realize I should have been more specific with the guy I hired to do this job. Expensive lesson. On my frequent sojourns into the house, I also peck away at the latest bird pic. Funnily enough, I think I am done. Pissed off also means less pickiness, because I am now tired of these particular birds and want to get on with the next ones. There will undoubtedly be a time when I will visit these little guys again. Just not today.
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