But I only quit for about thirty-six hours. I figured if I didn’t take a break, I’d have to check myself into a voluntary-rehab program.
Not that I have a drug problem, just a touch of testosterone poisoning. I got it from my husband and sons. I needed to cut myself off from the source before a touch of the poison became a lethal dose.
So I left the piles of clothes, the dirty dishes, the unmade beds, the dirty pet cages, the unfinished homework, the bickering, the calls home from teachers—and I made the three hour drive to El Dorado Hills (sounds so nice) to see two of my oldest and dearest friends in the world.
My friend Mary just moved to a house that has a peaceful little garden–a place where she, too, could recover from a tumultuous time in her life.
My friend Jenny works her stress out in her garden. She has a fabulous garden, which she and her husband John thoughtfully designed and installed themselves, spending countless hours perusing nurseries filling their garden with a the perfect mixture of trees, shrubs and perennials.
Jenny doesn’t subscribe to the method of garage sales, hand me down plants and the shovel-and-the-side-of-the-road technique that I had perfected. She actually lays things out on paper–weird.