Weeding is all I can think about.
It consumes me.
And though I have a postage stamp-size backyard, somehow it has become home to enough weeds to keep me occupied for weeks.
It looks like one of those yards you see on those drug police shows, you know how just before a raid the camera pans the dilapidated house, the rusted Chevy on blocks, the engine hanging from a tree branch, to show the profusion of waist-high weeds nearly swallowing the rickety porch from view.
I should put an old tire out back so that water can collect, stagnate and become a West Nile factory. (There are some neighbours I don't like.)
Every evening, after work, I head out back with little gardening gloves to cut down the unruly vegetation.
I mindlessly and furiously attack a section of weeds, using one of those three-pronged hand tool thingies to loosen the dirt, then I plunge my hand down, grab hold of the root and rip from the earth. I usually end up taking off the gloves so that I can more precisely and quickly uproot the weeds.
It's so incredibly satisfying, like scratching an itch, or nose picking.
I've filled up many of those tall brown paper bags with weeds and other garden refuse.
I can't get the dirt out from under my fingernails, so each morning, when I come into work, I look as if I've been panhandling.
Hey, it's something to do that's not smoking.