vermipost

The vermicomposting adventures continue. The Chrises did not attempt to wiggle to their seche deaths last night because I returned them from the dark of the apartment foyer to the perpetual fluorescent day of the hallway corridor. I don't care that they think the sun never sets, so long as they stop trying to crawl out onto the floor. I also roughed up the bedding a bit - ostensibly to introduce more air pockets into their asphyxi-bin, but most likely I only disoriented them and made them gay. I did a little bit of Google-hunting yesterday and read other people's worm testimonials, and an alarming many of them said things like, "Worms? Your first batch always die on you!" Other internet sages tell stories of dead worms smelling like fish. As much as I would prefer not to wake to a house covered in red wigglers, I would almost prefer that to waking to a tupperware bin with one pound of fish-smelling dead worms. Yesterday I peered into the bin for a good long minute trying to decide if the stiff, dark brown cappellinis I saw were worms or apple stems, and then I realized that I had not put apples into the bin.



So apparently I continue to feed my worms, blithely unaware that they're drying and dying. Or are they drowning and dying? Worms die when they are too hot, too cold, too wet, too dry, too choked, too aerated, too starved, and too fed. How am I supposed to know what to do?

In other news, I think I must be pregnant because of all of my recent hormone disequilibrium. Also, I realize I love a lot more people than this blog might make apparent; there is a picture of a unicorn on my desk with the word "plaintiff" written above it three times; I went to the Bronx Family Court recently and returned thinking only that Communist China offers comparable amenities for its municipal bureaucracies, and that it was such an awful, inhumane place to have the fate of your child determined; the Supreme Court ruled yesterday in Long Island Care v. Coke that in essence domestic workers will be protected under federal minimum wage and overtime laws only upon the whim of the President and his DOL cronies; and I would like to take my parents on vacation somewhere.