Tell your ceiling you love it every day

I’m listening to hypnobirthing CDs. The idea behind these CDs is that you can hypnotize yourself during labor to help you stay calm and feel less pain. They’re very trippy, but I’m getting really into them. Hey, worth a shot, right? The CDs start with the hypnotist, a reassuring woman accompanied by soft, alien-ish music (exactly what I imagine plays in Tom Cruise’s house all day long) reminding the listener not to listen to hypnobirthing CDs while also driving a car. Giggle. Anyway, since in hypnobirthing land, contractions are not labor pains but lovely pressure sensations and pleasure waves, I’ve decided to test what I’m learning by applying these lemons-into-lemonade mantras to a charming, expanding event here at the Little House this week.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I feel peace and joy knowing that if the ceiling above a crib was going to collapse, it is a blessing it did not collapse on the crib while an actual baby was in it.

I feel peace and joy knowing that if water was going to drip into a crib, it is a blessing it was not dripping into a baby’s mouth, causing a baby, too small to move itself, to choke or drown.

I welcome this opportunity to reflect with gratitude on how ceilings are omnipresent in my life, protecting me, asking so little in return. Ceilings should not be ignored; ceilings are our respected friends.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I welcome this chance to learn about the rainwater-retaining abilities – and molding potential — of plaster versus drywall versus wood. I appreciate that the universe is always finding ways to teach me new things, like the term “roof boot.”

It is great to be largely unemployed and at home all day, because it makes being here to let contractors in a lot less stressful, schedule-wise.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I am grateful mildew wipes easily off wooden furniture.

I am grateful dogs are forgiving animals. After finding repeat puddles on the floor and assuming it was the dogs – yes, the puddles were clear, yes, I just assumed the dogs had been, um, well-hydrated?, yes, next time I will look at the ceiling instead of the dogs when clear puddles keep appearing in the same spot – I am reminded that my dogs are often better-behaved than I give them credit for.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It’s not a gaping hole in my ceiling and rip in my roof; it is a nature-connecting portal that reminds me to gaze at the stars.

It’s not an unwanted, unexpected expense; it is a way to broaden my horizons by meeting new people, like roofers, and share the gift of money with them.

Yeah, I feel great. G-R-E-A-T! Total pleasure waves.

Some thoughts on quitting newspapers

There’s this thing about being a journalist, specifically a staff writer at a newspaper, where you believe you simply cannot have another career — many of us said (or still say) we could not see ourselves in another profession. You hear lots of  cops say the same thing; I think because law enforcement is also a weird, somewhat isolating profession where it is hard for “outsiders” to understand the challenges, pitfalls, joys and weirder-than-fiction encounters it can bring, to say nothing of the stress, hours, need to act a certain way in public, etc.

The “I could never see myself doing anything else” journalist mantra was one I truly believed for a long time. And while I don’t think I was lying to myself, I do see now how much journalists are socialized to say that mantra, to themselves and even more so, to each other — you’re not a real, true blood reporter if you don’t say it about yourself and mean it. Leaving the profession is often an agonizing, much rehashed issue among reporters; so much so that non-journalists probably are correct when they accuse us of being hopelessly self-important about the profession.

Now a few months out, sometimes former colleagues will still ask me — in a gentle, therapist-y voice, as if signaling that I’m in a safe place where it’s OK to share feelings — “How are you doing?”

Uh, fine. Don’t miss it. No really, I don’t.

I realized I said some of my goodbyes to newspapers months before I left my job. Newspapers everywhere, but especially the big ones and medium ones, were no longer looking and acting like the ones I’d once fallen in love with. Not one of them. There was no place else I wanted to work, no place else I wanted to go. I missed seeing long, rich storytelling — the sort of gorgeously crafted piece you’d sit down with for 30 minutes or an hour to read — and fleshy, shocking investigative stories; not the type where newspapers ask for some public documents or something and then pat themselves on the back, but the type of story where you say holy shit, I can’t believe that was going on!

That’s what I miss. Man, do I miss that, as a writer, reporter and maybe most of all, as a plain old reader. I’ve stopped reading almost all news media (all things being relative: I went from being an obsessive consumer to a casual one), because what I don’t see makes me angry, and that’s not terribly productive, is it. Looking back, the industry was kissing that stuff goodbye in 2006, 2007, 2008 — and I mourned it then. By 2009, when I quit, while it still made me sad to see those voids, I was in a stage of acceptance, and ready to move on. For me, it was like marrying a great guy, and then a decade into the marriage, he became a drunk. It’s not your fault your wonderful guy became a drunk, but he changed on you just the same. You can try to ignore it. You can try to rationalize it. You can try to make it better. And then you can either stay in denial and believe you can save him from himself, or you realize you can’t save him and that there is life for you beyond him. I went with option #2.

Newspapers still do good stuff, and there are a lot of people I admire still working at them. I hope they are the ones who fight to get rich stories in the paper, not just trend fluff and clipped updates on breaking news of dubious relevance; I hope the folks on the advertising side of things — the ones I squarely blame for sinking the ship, not reporters, who were never supposed to generate anything other than a great read — figure out how the hell to make money publishing on the internet, because the stuff a good newspaper is capable of is nothing short of awesome.

In the meantime, I have found there are other ways to be a writer, and other ways to do work that can create positive social change. Working for a newspaper was once a great place to do both those things; I would not have guessed a few years ago that I’d be doing more writing and more work for my community by not being at one.

Green riddle #1: shower curtain

Our shower curtain had been looking a little, eh, not so fresh. OK, and it’s not really a curtain. We just used a clear plastic liner and nothing else, mainly because I never got around to buying some cute fabric outer layer that matches our bathroom tile. It was time for a new one, and boy, is there lots of eco-drama about shower curtains out there. Plastic/vinyl shower curtain liners have zoomed high on the List of Bad Things set by the environmentally conscious powers that be. Not just because they are petroleum-based, don’t biodegrade and have short lifespans (thus needing regular replacement), but they are coated with chemicals — you know, that give it that new-shower-curtain-smell — that may cause problems for our respiratory, nervous and reproductive systems.

Got it: vinyl curtain cheap but bad. But: While I don’t want to give birth to a baby with two heads, I also don’t want a sopping wet bathroom floor — or product that might be a happy, natural breeding ground for mildew.

My non-PVC options seemed to be: Install glass door (too much work/expense, and also, am I the only one who finds them un-cozy?); buy a polyester fabric one (still made through a chemical process, but at least water-repellent, washable and longer product lifespan); buy a hemp/fancy organic cotton one ($100 for a hemp shower curtain may not be a Dennis Kozlowski-level of shower curtain indulgence, but it still felt a little ridiculous. And for that price, I don’t want to chance the claims of hemp’s water-repelling magic); be a super green perfect person and make my own out of old cotton sheets, and just deal with the water spillage. Or, I could give up showering, but that could lead to justifiable grounds for divorce for Erik, and I am pretty fond of him.

I decided to chance a really thick cotton curtain ($20, white, waffle weave, Target) with no liner. The makers of these fabric curtains claim you don’t need a plastic liner. I was hesitant, as manufacturers are in the business of being LIARS. I found it hard to believe the thick fabric would keep the water in the shower, and furthermore, would dry quickly (thus not becoming a wet, heavy, musty mess).

We’ve had it for two weeks, and you know what? It works. Really does keep the water out despite no extra liner. Dries pretty quickly. If it gets weird-looking after several months of use, I can throw it in the wash. Love it.

I hope this post brightens your day by giving you a jolt of superiority, because no matter how bad your week gets at work, you are still not that weird lady who spent three days genuinely torn about her shower curtain choice. And who is now conflicted about the environmental and ethical issues around … dairy products. Yeah, I know. It’s a wonder I have any friends.

Finding my tribe

I haven’t done a good job of creating community here for myself.

The reasons why are easy to pinpoint: (1) Because we’ve lived in N.C. before, we had some built-in friends when we moved back here this summer (only a few of mine, but several of Erik’s); (2) having lived in this region before, I haven’t felt the urge to explore the way I have when I’ve moved somewhere totally new; (3) I have a built-in companion, friend and date in Erik, whereas when I was single/living alone, I made a significant effort to go out and meet new friends or a boyfriend to do activities with; (4) I don’t love Charlotte (the list why is long), and I allow myself to get an attitude about it, and sometimes assume I will never find anything cool here.

In other words, I have been lazy. And probably a bit narrow-minded.

My closest friends all live out of state. This has not been a problem per se; I can amuse myself for days at home alone working on projects. But I think I need to make more of an effort to build a community for myself here, meet new people who share my interests in natural living, outdoors/travel, pets, writing, etc. (not just a new mommy club — please do not suggest a mommy club — and actually, if you can please just not use the word mommy), and most of all, get to know my neighbors.*

*Other than the couple next door who called animal control on our dogs, ignored Erik when he tried to visit them twice, yelled at our dog sitter, are never seen coming and going from their house, and even the 70-year-old neighborhood social butterfly across the street doesn’t like.

Not applesauce

I bought 20 pounds of apples from a farmer in sorta-nearby Hendersonville, N.C., with visions of applesauce that would last me all winter and spring.

It appears I now have roughly 10 pounds of pale, bloated apple pieces floating like corpses in 10 pounds of cinnamon-specked apple juices. Not quite sure where I went wrong here. Maybe I can just throw it all in the blender, and the resulting blend will be applesauce-y? You know what, even if it doesn’t, I’m freezing that stuff and eating it and will LOVE IT. Oh yes, I will.

I should have named this blog Too Stupid To Homestead.

Fa la la la fall update

Update on my original plan for adding fall fun to my life now that I am not in an office bubble:

DONE

– Carved pumpkins; went hiking; sat on hay bales; went camping (in the Blue Ridge with wonderful friends, what could be better?); cooked over a fire and gossiped; decorated the house so it feels all fall-y and cute; sniffed cinnamon like a jaded high school junior with Elmer’s glue.

STILL TO DO

– Do something with copious amounts of apples. Either go apple picking or buy bushel after bushel of apples from the farmers’ market; make my own apple cider, applesauce, apple pie, and if I’m feeling really feisty, apple butter. No specific plan but THERE WILL BE APPLES.

I’ve made several batches of baked apples, and plan to make an apple pie and applesauce this weekend. Where the hell did I get the idea for apple cider? I don’t own a cider press. I don’t want to make a cider press.

– I’ve had my hot chocolate with fat marshmallows, and I’m still on the lookout for a decent cinnamon-sugar donut. I don’t care if I live in the South, anything Krispy Kreme sells does not cut it.

– Still have to make a fire in the fireplace. Hasn’t been cold enough yet. That’s a good thing.

– Haven’t thrown leaves in the air while twirling, but I have enjoyed watching Erik rake the front yard. While I sit on the couch, not raking. Highly recommended lawn care technique.

DELETING

– Use real live pumpkin, not from a can, to make pie and soup.

I have six-foot long pumpkin vines and yellow flowers on the vines … but no pumpkins. What happened? I’d say “stupid garden,” but it’s never the garden’s fault, it’s always your fault. Very annoying. I still find the moods of my dogs more intriguing than the moods of the plants. This does not bode well for my food-growing ideals.

– Go canoeing

I have fallen over twice in the past month. This pregnancy shift-of-gravity is no joke. Given that I am 5’10”, if you’re someone I see in person, for your safety it’d be wise to stay about six feet away from me in any direction at all times. Anyway, while I am this wobbly, canoeing seems like tempting fate a bit too much.

BONUS POINTS

– Had a great Halloween weekend with a party and trick-or-treaters. One precocious young trick-or-treater looked at my pointy black hat and asked, “Are you a witch or a wiccan?”

Wiccan is not a word you hear, well, pretty much ever here in the home of NASCAR and Billy Graham. I told him I was a witch. He looked completely disappointed with me.

I tried again: “Well what do you think, should I be a witch or a wiccan?” He told me that wiccans are nicer and only use their powers for good.

Yep, definitely a witch.

Happiness in unexpected places

Happy November! You know what Nov. 1 meant? My last day on COBRA.  I am now covered by my husband’s plan through his employer. Oh, I am wiping a tear – of JOY. Bye-bye! Bye! Bye!

There are all sorts of hurdles and kinks when you downsize your job and your life, but the number one problem I’ve faced since voluntarily leaving my full-time newspaper job six months ago has been health insurance hell. Perhaps you remember the months of me fighting to get the coverage I was legally entitled to and paying for, and then how the coverage kicked in suspiciously fast once I bitched about it here on my itty bitty blog – thank God for image-obsessed companies who do Google news alerts on themselves.

There have been other fun little updates in the meantime that I didn’t post here, like when Ceridian, the company that administered my COBRA coverage under UnitedHealthCare (following that?), sent me bills for bills I’d already paid, causing panic. Then one time, after Ceridian did finally activate my coverage, I got a call from a debt collector. The debt collector wanted to collect on the $702 bill my midwife’s office turned over to them. Because my COBRA coverage took so long to kick in post-Tribune and was so unnecessarily messy, my valid health insurance claims were rejected by UnitedHealthCare, and the midwife’s office turned my bill (which UHC was supposed to cover) over to a debt collector.

That’s right, first I was paying for health insurance I wasn’t receiving, and then I got a Saturday morning phone call from a debt collector looking to collect on a bill I didn’t owe. Funny, right? FUNNY. Potential errors in your credit report when you don’t even owe the bill in question are hil-ar-ious! Luckily that got cleared up in 48 hours, and the account was snatched back from the debt collector. I love you, corporate America.

For the past six months, to receive the fabulous service described above, I paid $464.41 a month, for a total of $2,786.46 (I didn’t qualify for Obama’s COBRA reduction because I wasn’t a layoff/buyout). SO MUCH MONEY — makes me want to throw up. But it was the price I was willing to pay for what I wanted. I realize that $464.41 does not equal $1 million, but having that extra money every month, starting this month, makes me feel like a millionaire.

I have met a lot of people in recent months who want to leave their jobs, become self-employed, launch businesses and potentially profitable projects, but stay in a job they dislike ONLY because of the health insurance issue. And plenty of you love your jobs, which is great, but as you can imagine based on this blog, I tend to mostly hear from the what-else-is-out-there folks. Wonder what kind of professional lives we’d all feel free to explore if health insurance wasn’t so crippling?

Had a great weekend with a Halloween party, trick-or-treating and our first birthing class. I thought the last one would be the spookiest, goriest and scariest, but it was fantastic. I left feeling incredibly and unexpectedly bonded to Erik, on some sort of primal, biological, you-hunter-gatherer, me-guard-baby-in-cave level. As we sat on the blanket and he led me in a breathing exercise, I felt completely and utterly in love with him.

Don’t reach for your barf bag just yet; rest assured about an hour after we got home he was watching football and I was accusing him of misplacing one of my favorite CDs, so everything went back to normal.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Arguably not a costume

A little too natural

I hadn’t cut my hair since April or done any beauty/salon stuff since my spring wedding (got my hair, makeup and nails done for the big day). I was feeling fine about cutting the extra expenses and products out of my life, and didn’t feel much different.

But my hair has felt annoyingly long lately, so I broke down and went to a salon yesterday. It was one of the Aveda student salons, which are great because they are so cheap ($15 haircut) for quality cuts, but I rarely went to them when I worked in an office because the students are, as to be expected, a bit slow. Who has time for two hours in a salon on a Thursday during the workweek? Not me in office days. I needed quick ‘n’ pricey with a 45-minute turnaround — I couldn’t afford (time-wise) the slowness. Now that my time is more flexible, I can do it. One of those things where choices that save money can take extra time, but paying more saves time — lots of examples of that phenomenon out there.

Anyway, nothing like going into a salon for the first time in several months to realize OH MY GOD I LOOK LIKE TOTAL HELL.

Sort of like when in your mind, you tell yourself you’re reasonably fit, but then when you try a new aerobics class for the first time in months, you’re out of breath in the first 10 minutes and feel like an idiot.

I cut seven inches (!) off my hair and bought an eyeliner. I feel better.

Where all the plastic goes

Amazing photos by photographer Chris Jordan. Check this out: http://www.chrisjordan.com/

Click on “Midway, Message from Gyre.”

You can plainly see cigarette lighters, bottle caps, the top of a spice or seasoning shaker in the stomachs of these wild birds. Incredible to think meaningless, disposable little pieces of our trash make it that far out to sea, and even after these animals died and decomposed, the plastic hasn’t decomposed a bit.

These photos reminded me a bit of a trip I was very lucky to take to Antarctica in January 2008. I will have to write about it sometime, because it profoundly shaped some of my environmental views. People think of Antarctica as this desolate place, but it’s not — teeming with ocean life in the clearest water I’d ever witnessed, the cleanest ice, the brightest skies. I’d never seen anything like it. Made me realize how much damage we’ve done elsewhere. These photos remind me again to do better, do more, consume less.

Here’s the photographer’s note on the bird and plastic pictures. Added emphasis mine.

These photographs of albatross chicks were made just a few weeks ago on Midway Atoll, a tiny stretch of sand and coral near the middle of the North Pacific. The nesting babies are fed bellies-full of plastic by their parents, who soar out over the vast polluted ocean collecting what looks to them like food to bring back to their young. On this diet of human trash, every year tens of thousands of albatross chicks die on Midway from starvation, toxicity, and choking.

To document this phenomenon as faithfully as possible, not a single piece of plastic in any of these photographs was moved, placed, manipulated, arranged, or altered in any way. These images depict the actual stomach contents of baby birds in one of the world’s most remote marine sanctuaries, more than 2000 miles from the nearest continent.

Soap nuts

I can say with confidence after several loads of laundry, including one of alfalfa-covered, horse barn-smelling clothes (which I think is a great smell, but I realize is not a socially acceptable smell in public), that soap nuts genuinely work and are not weird. No mess, no flaking nut pieces, no residue, no extra steps. Just throw them in a little cloth baggie, put them in your washer and wah-la. I am delighted they allow me to be green and lazy.

For the uninitiated, soap nuts grow on trees and work as laundry detergent — but they involve no detergent, chemicals, water, plastic bottles, and the other environmental pitfalls of regular laundry products. They look a little like a mysterious glazed candy found in bowls at antiques-heavy bed and breakfasts. Where you’re not quite sure whether what’s in the bowl is edible or a potpourri meant to appeal to squirrels.

(Photo credit: ehow.com)

The nuts do smell very very very faintly like, well, is it glue? Some odor I can’t put my finger on. But that’s only when they’re in the bag; your laundry will come out smelling 100 percent fresh and normal and clean, I promise. Even my husband agrees. He did not know about my secret soap nuts usage until I was out of town last weekend and he did the laundry (which I do 92 percent of the time).

“I found the soap nuts,” he said on the phone, his voice suspicious.

“Oh?” I said. Erik’s patience is often tried by my little green-ing projects around the house. I have learned from experience the key is to maintain an even, cheery tone that projects innocence.

“They smell weird.”

“But the laundry came out clean and smelling fresh, didn’t it.”

“Yeah, the laundry smells fine. It’s clean.”

“OK then.”

“OK.”

Soap nuts pass. The small bag I bought lasts 120 loads and cost $14.95. Awesome.

I wish I could grow my own soap nuts, but they need a frost-free climate; right now they’re grown in SE Asia. I debated, in the never ending well-is-this-really-greener-than-that riddle, whether it’s better to buy a natural, renewable product (I got mine from the addictive Lehman’s catalog) that’s then shipped (petroleum, oh no) across the globe to me, or buy “green” liquid detergent that’s made here in the states. I just don’t know. And who knows where all the packaging and ingredients in the “green” liquid and powder detergents come from anyway; I doubt they’re 100 percent USA-sourced. Sticking with the soap nuts.

I might buy mine from Maggie’s Pure Land Products next time, even though Lehman’s is lovely, because when I emailed Maggie’s customer service with some questions about the trees in Asia and where else the trees can grow, not only did they respond to my questions, the reply was really helpful. Thanks Maggie’s!:

Hello Emily,
Our soap nuts are wild harvested in Indonesia.  We use fair trade practices with our employees there.  Harvest of the soap nuts helps to preserve the ancient forests as people are able to derive income from the forest.  A lot better than cutting the trees for firewood or to make a coconut or palm oil plantation.  Our Laundry Liquid is made here in an organic tea bottling facility.
There is no production of soap nuts in the US.  There is a related species which unfortunately produces skin irritation in many people.  Interestingly,the species we sell is known historically, in Indian Ayurvedic and Chinese herbal medicine, as a skin treatment.
We are experimenting with plantings on the California coast.  Soap Nut trees require a completely frost free environment.  As it takes 9 years for the trees to bear fruit we will have to wait 6 more years to know if our plantings are successful.
Please let me know if you have any other questions.
Happy washing,

Dariel

I have acute media hype flu

Off topic today.

This swine flu vaccine stuff is making me crazy. First everyone was telling me to get it, then not to get it, then to get it RIGHT AWAY, but it wasn’t available yet here in N.C., so I couldn’t even if I wanted to. I was blocking out the crazy for a long time. But Friday, when I got a third “helpful” email from a certain relative telling me to get the vaccine and 10 more articles were published about pregnant women dying from the flu, the crazy got to me. To the point that both the pro-vaccine and anti-vaccine people sound equally wrong to me and I want them all to go away. What’s funny is that I was in Mexico in July — when other people were canceling their trips to the country due to swine flu and walking around wearing masks — and despite being early in my pregnancy, I wasn’t worried then. But now I’ve caught the crazy.

I want to make an informed decision, but based on what I’ve read in the dear old media — and as a semi-ex-journo, I know I can be extra critical of journalism, like those ex-pack-a-day-smokers who scream about the evils of smoking — my options are either (1) get a faulty, untested vaccine that will cause mental development problems for the baby, and it will be all my fault because I got the vaccine, or (2) don’t get the vaccine, risk infection, and then go into preterm labor with my now 27-weeks-along fetus, risking secondary infections or death to us both, and it will be all my fault because I didn’t get the vaccine. I didn’t realize this mommy guilt crap would start so soon.

I don’t know that there is a correct answer, maybe only a bad choice and a worse choice. What I do know is that I need to unplug the damn internet while I think about this. I’m so mad at myself for giving in to the panic.

On a semi-related note: Some people who try to simplify their lives go on media diets. This feels pretty sacrilegious to me, but I do wonder if less ‘news’ consumption might be a good thing.

Cutting plastic consumption, a little at a time

I’ve been looking for ways to cut back on the number of products we buy that come in plastic containers, and boy, are they everywhere. Take for example a simple salad I made for dinner last week: Blue cheese (plastic container), cranberries (plastic container), mixed greens (plastic container). Eh.

Bathroom products are much easier. We stopped using hand and body soaps that come in plastic containers a few months ago, and now buy yummy bar soap from a local goat milk farmer. This week, shampoo bars from an Ohio company, Chagrin Valley Soap, arrived wrapped in brown paper. After I opened the package, the whole house smelled delicious and herb-y. I was tempted to try the shampoo bars from Lush, but they’re much more expensive, and Erik always got a headache from the scents when I forced him into Lush’s Chicago store. No offense to Lush.

Switching from shampoo in bottles to shampoo bars isn’t quite the same as putting solar panels on our roof and turning pee into water, but, every little change we make adds up.

Baby stuff

We went to Babies ‘R’ Us for the first time. As expected, it was like the wedding industry but 10 times worse — the wedding industry wants you to believe your wedding will be sad and plain if you don’t give away $30-a-pop custom favors; the baby industry tells you your baby will be dumb/deprived if you don’t buy an absolute ton of equipment. I even genuinely enjoy wedding froufrou and baby stuff, the cuteness and the celebration, but geez. One of the hippie-style wear-your-baby slings we saw for sale comes with an  instructional DVD. What advice could possibly be on there other than make sure baby can breathe in sling; make sure baby doesn’t fall out of sling?

We didn’t buy anything, and we learned B ‘R’ U holds regular classes on how to register — clever. The “New Parents’ Checklist” (registry guide) they gave us at the store suggests nearly 200 items. One woman was actually running around the store with a registry scanner. I thought we were in a recession?

Pumpkin flower

Did you know pumpkin plants produce giant yellow blooms? Of course you did. You’re much smarter than I am. But you probably already suspected as much.

I have been delighted to discover pumpkin flowers exist, and while I don’t want to pry into my pumpkins’ reproductive plans — not nice to ask someone why they don’t have children, if they want them, and when — I’m discreetly hoping the giant blooms and fat buzzing bees mean the pitter-patter of little pumpkin feet are on the way.

I’d post a picture of the blooms, but my camera is having problems — weird green swirls appear on the images. Wish I had an exciting tale of capturing phantasmal evidence, but I’m pretty sure my camera is just on the fritz.

55 degrees in the house today. I’m in head-to-toe sweats and under a blanket, and feel cozy and happy instead of invalid. Think we can resist turning on the heat for a few more weeks, though this is definitely … brisk. First fire in the fireplace probably a week away.

6 days of rain

Entering day six of pouring rain here. I have garlic to plant, but I don’t want it to get washed away. Maybe it wouldn’t? Not sure. But I’m waiting until this wet spell is over just in case. Also wondering whether all this rain is good for my plants or whether it will make some of the fall veggies rot. I just don’t know what lots of rain means, and I feel like a 70-year-old woman who only ever wants to talk about the weather. Not that there’s anything I can do about it but wait, see, learn.

The dogs have complete cabin fever, and it’s making me more than a little crazy. Ruby pretty much refuses to go outside when it’s raining, and Boris will go but only for a minute or two, and then he’ll begin hurtling himself against the screen door until I let him in.

They’re indoor dogs but they need a minimum of two hours outside every day (walks, unleashed playtime in yard) to burn off energy. So since that’s not happening and the days keep passing, Boris has started pacing from one corner of the room to another. We have hardwood floors throughout the house and he has little nails. Click-click-click-click-click-click. Ruby, desperate for play, has started running up to Boris making ridiculous growls and pouncing in a misguided effort to make him mad and thus willing to play-wrestle with her. This can go on for an hour before she takes a break.

Here inside, I’m writing very little, because my hands hurt again.

What would Laura Ingalls do with a day like today?

1) Bake bread

2) Cheerfully sweep

3) Not have a house full of dogs anyway

4) Relax to the sounds of Pa playing his fiddle

5) Eat a large bowl of cereal and nap for four hours

I hope it’s number five.