It’s gotten to the point where I have no idea what to write. The sad part is that there’s so much…so many things *going on* that I could probably write a mini-novel for the month of May (I think a mini-novel is called a novella…but novella sounds…well, not substantial or important or…bookish. So I refuse to use it to describe anything I’d write).

(random sidebar: did you know that Beiber kid got started on YouTube? That’s insane. Obviously, I’m going about this the wrong way)

Truly, it all starts and ends with the old-new job. It’s all I do. For 60 hours. Every. Single. Week.

And I’m tired.

And I can’t even go into details because when I left back in August? I didn’t really think I’d ever *be* back, working there, so I shared my super secret blog with people who still work there. Again, obviously, I’m not going about things in such a way that makes a shred of sense. Also? Next week both my boss AND my Assistant are on vacation. Shitacular. I’ve already asked for a cot.

So…where can I go from here?

Tim and I run.

ALL THE TIME.

EVERY DAY.

You think I’m exaggerating?

This is our current training schedule. The “live” version is posted on the side of our refrigerator. And every morning, right after we stumble inside from our run, while we’re still dripping with sweat, Tim writes our finish time in the light blue box with a skinny little black sharpie. I’m not allowed to do this task because my 3′s look like 8′s and my 5′s look like S’s and in general, my handwriting is bordering on illegible. I get to divide out the daily vitamins instead.

I like to refer to this training schedule as a massive pain in the ass. You want to know why I’m not writing? It’s because I’m running.

And the days that say “tempo?” Those are especially sucky because that means we have to run super fast for an extended period of time. The whatever x 400 just means we run really fast down the street for 400 meters. And then we turn around and do it again. And this continues however many times *it* says – like this training schedule is our boss man. If it’s an odd number? We have to walk back home. So odd numbers are kind of shitty.

The day *after* the race?

(and for those of you who have no idea which day the race is, it’s the box that says “PTRR!” You’re so welcome.)

We start marathon training.

Again.

So, it’s an endless, perpetuating cycle that doesn’t allow us to sleep in. Ever. Because we live in Georgia. And summers are awful, humid, blistering days where the pavement is so hot that it has a reflection that looks like a a mirror…or water…either way, it’s a mirage. So we run before the sun comes up, greeting us with the unbearable heat. You know, once, early in Tim and my “running” days, Tim wanted to wait to run so he could sleep in. I say “he” because I wanted to get up early, before the sun, and get our 5 miles out of the way. But we waited. Until around 10am. And “hot” doesn’t even begin to explain our experience. It was miserable. We had to walk half of the time. And I think I got sunburned.

Let’s just say that 1: we should have brought about 6 gallons of water and 2: we’ve gotten up early to run ever since that day. Tim now understands that I’m not crazy to want to get up early. I’m smart. I know how to beat the sun. I’ve learned how to WIN.

And as much as running sucks at 5:00 every morning, it doesn’t suck when the muscles in your legs are super awesome. It’s a trade off I’m willing to make. Also, I’d probably beat myself senseless with a wiffle ball bat if I didn’t have some kind of daily outlet for my work-stress.

Oh! My garden. I went and took some pictures. Just for you.

Actually, Tim took most of them. But he told me the other day that it’s “us.” With everything. So I do something awesome, “we” get credit. He takes pictures, “I” get credit. I mean, I’m just following his marriage formula…

Anyway, I call it my transportable garden. Which is important. Mostly because of this conversation Tim and I had yesterday:

Me: So, my tomato plants are going to get super tall?…Like how you said in Italy they have tomato plants that are like, taller than me? It’ll be like the never-ending tomato tree!

Tim: Well, not exactly. Everything dies in the winter and it doesn’t come back. And it’s a plant. Not a tree.

Me: Um. What? No. This is not how it’s supposed to work. It’s supposed to be: I plant it once and it grows forever.

Tim: Yah. No. You have to replant everything.

Me: I’m thinking this is a bad idea. I don’t know I can do this successfully TWICE, let alone EVERY YEAR.

Tim: You just buy more and replant. It’s simple.

Me: But, see, this ruins the whole idea of growing food being cheaper than buying it if I have to re-buy it again every year.

Tim: Re-buy? How, exactly, does that work?

Me: Re-buy? You know, buy it again. I don’t want to do that. My vegetables are coming inside for the winter.

Tim: Why?

Me: I’m not killing my vegetables.

And I’m not. They’re totally portable. I just have to figure out what kind of box I’m going to put underneath them when they relocate inside. The box is for when I water them, and the water drains, it doesn’t go all over the place. It’s a project for another day.

This is my basil. The tiny one to the right is the one I had growing inside. It was pale and sad looking. Apparently, it just needed some fresh air, because little buds are sprouting everywhere. Go me.

My cherry tomatoes. They’ve been big and green for like, forever. Hopefully they’ll start turning red. Then I’ll feel successful. With tomatoes.

My portable garden. The box to the left is just tomatoes. The center one…strawberries and arugula. I have no strawberries to speak of – just lots of leaves – so I think I’m doing something wrong. The far right box is basil, rosemary (we bought it yesterday, so it’s still tiny) and bell peppers.

Oh! We planted tubers yesterday! It was my first tuber experience. Irises. Purple and yellow and white. Hopefully they actually grow. Tim helped…and he looked like a natural, chopping up the dirt and putting the tubers down and then covering them up again. It’s because he had to do all kinds of crazy gardening as a kid. So his hands KNOW WHAT TO DO. Mine are all clumsy and scared, like I’m going to break something. I’d post pictures but…you can’t really tell we actually did anything…yet.

Also, my fingernails are still stained from the tuber project, thanks to the infamous Georgia red clay. It’s not dirt. It’s a definite, hassle free way to permanently stain anything.