graff

Sunday was bottling day, and I was reverently presented with a towering beaker of amber liquid. Normally, I sniff the stuff thoughtfully, take a delicate sip, and roll the flavors around my mouth for a moment before pronouncing it a success. But this was not beer. This was hard cider, and it was so crisp and tart that I took a mouthful, stared at the beaker, cursed, and then drank the entire thing. The man was happy and started preparing the bottles for capping and carbonation. 

I took the picture and frowned at the camera. "Geez. Come take a flattering picture of me bending over my quilt blocks, or I'll look ridiculous on the same page as you." 

Very natural. 

Leif likes the lines on the batting. 

Our House played in the livingroom, the boys messed with play doh and lego, the cats sat like meatloafs, we went about our quiet industry, and everything was kind of perfect. My skinless hand is recovering, although the life line has tried to fuse over. Gypsies will scrutinize my palm and inform me of my impending death and resurrection, then go check the ammo in their zombie kits.

look what I got today

Look at the books. Look at your bookshelf. Look back at the books. I'm in a font. 

Look at my chickens! They are so glossy! 

Looks like quality literature to me. 

This one looks nice, too. More on availability soon. Natural food plan will have to pause today, as my liver demands a margarita.

Two

Two years ago this morning, I was standing in a waiting room with my butt hanging out of a hospital gown, scarfing down a take-out box of scrambled eggs and bacon before the wrist-flapping nurses could catch me, push me back into L&D, and strap me into bed again. I fell asleep between contractions, and they slowed enough to send my doctor tutting in to inform me that I was not in labor and my baby was going to get an infection and DIE if I didn't start on pitocen.  A) I was, too, in labor. I kind of noticed. B) I had only been in active labor for 6 hours. C) asshole. Three hours later, Leif was clipped free of the cords around his neck and dropped onto me, limp and blue and unmoving. The nurse whisked him to the oxygen mask above the examination basinet, and the room was silent for long seconds while my arms hung outstretched in the air, waiting urgently. He solidified, screamed, flushed pink. Mike cried. Happy Birthday, Leif, my viking baby. I love you so much it hurts. 

buff bods and poo of all sorts

After four days of hauling boxes, walking up and down stairs, dragging ankle-children, and moving furniture, I felt as if I had been beaten head-to-toe with The Big Book of Beating. Got on the scale, and cheered a bit. "I lost a pound!" Mike pulled off his shirt. "Oh, look at that, I'm buff again." Jerk. The hamcat returned, appearing suddenly behind me as I was flexing in the closet mirror and making me jump out of pose with her pissy "RAWR". Then she went and pooped in the tub. Gee, I am so glad she is back. 

It has been determined that our porch is just about the greatest hang-out place in the world. The view at night The view at dawn I keep making heavenly-chorus "Aahhhhh!" noises whenever I see that. (The sunrise)  

 

Have decided not to do the Master Cleanse. Mostly because you have to drink about a gallon of salt water and spend 4-6 hours pooping, and I would end up having to do it with an audience of cats and a toddler - all of whom think it is their directive in life to pry me off the toilet and see what's going on in there. While having a cat's head suddenly jam down between your butt and the toilet seat is kind of funny at first, it is also alarming and absolutely horrifying. But then you can lean backward and pin their head in the toilet, and it is funny again - until it is scratchy and painful. So instead of purging the toxins with foul liquids, I will attempt something much more difficult: real food. No artificial color, sweetener, corn syrup, refined sugar, bleached flour, red meat, booze, caffeine, or massive quantities of salt. For, say, 2 weeks. You'd think this would be easy, living somewhere with no fast food or grocery stores. No, it is not. So far today: coffee with agave and milk (good. Except for, you know, the caffeine) hash browns and scrambled eggs (good) 2 sour cream and onion Ritz pretzel-crackers (fail) Kashi natural-whatsit snack bar (good) black tea with splenda and old milkshake as creamer (fail) Anticipating higher success rate after buying groceries/banning forced cracker feedings by co-worker. (Forced!) Also there is this: 

Dubbed the Invisibility Cloak, owing to its complete lack of color and therefore INVISIBILITY. No more getting caught by co-workers and being forced to do paperwork for me!

notes from the house of emptiness

Moving is nearly done. We are rippling with mover-type muscles, living like pioneer people up in the cottage with no internets or phone.

The old house is a mess of rolling dust balls, single shoes, broken lego, and to-be-donated junk (including the beer checkers. It is terrible to get tipsy and then find yourself with 26 shot glasses to wash).



The hamcat tore out a hamcat-shaped hole in the screen and ran away. Leif has been helping by working my cardio as an ankle-weight. Gavin has been helping by sneaking things out of the garbage piles and into his toy bins. Mike nearly fell out of the storage loft under a 50 lb trunk. But then the rain swept over the fields behind the house, the sun rose out of the ocean like a fiery plum, and our friends lent us their truck-packing services and eased our aching shoulders with a night of cards and homemade pizza and the new mango homebrew. Everything is kind of good.