The mosquitoes are trying to tell me something in their tiny, annoying voices. Like Fran Drescher tried, before I punched her in the throat.

Our summer has been so fucked up. All our lovely hot 30 degree* weather, which usually happens in July and August, is showing up NOW, long after everybody's gone back to school and taken their vacations from work. And where mosquitoes normally plague us in June and July, this year they're having an autumn feast.

After less than an hour in the garden yesterday, I came inside with 10 large welts. Seven of them were on my ASS.

What the fuck, mosquitoes? Is it that large of a target? No - wait - don't tell me - it's so big you got sucked into its gravitational pull?

Fucking mosquitoes.

I'm going to just assume that mosquitoes have great taste, because despite the fact that I've completely fallen off the exercise bandwagon, I still feel great, my clothes still fit (mostly) and I have a couple of fairly valid excuses as to why I'm watching said bandwagon disappear over the horizon.

Mostly, and I'll just get this out of the way right now, it's that I'm just a terrible human being who had four desserts today. But also, I had to stop running because I screwed up my back. Again.

Me and my back have a rather rocky history. It started when I was in university and I was doing a lot of pottery, and all the time spent hunched over the throwing wheel sent my (supposedly youthful and pliant) back muscles into spasm. I spent several months in physio, but it's been a bit of an albatross ever since, and it often derails my exercising efforts. One of the more memorable is pre-child, when I was playing squash daily with FoN, and while showering off after one game I innocently bent to pick up the shampoo. When I stood back up something went POP.

POP is a good sound when associated with kernels, or bubbles. Not spines. That unhappy incident introduced me to my chiropractor, with whom I am now on a first name basis.

(His name is Bill. In case you were wondering.)

So I wasn't kidding a month or so ago when I said that in order to go running, I needed to visit the chiropractor at least once a week. It was getting closer to twice a week, and it was getting kind of fucking pricey. And then it wasn't keeping the pain at bay, so I had to stop running.

I was still kind of enjoying running though**, so when I've done enough stretching and had enough visits to Bill, I keep trying again. And I then I'm reaching for the Aleve-Robaxacet cocktail, and voice-commanding my cel phone to "Call. Bill."

Anyway. I think I need to give up the marathon dream, and start looking at something that's a little more suited to my general personality. Low-impact and hippie-esh.

Yoga anyone?

*It's Celsius, I'm Canadian, just deal with it. It's about 86 F, plus.

**I know. I don't get it either.