The Solar Kiln, Putting it all Together.

So this morning I woke up feeling like I had been working from 7am until 10pm every day. Which coincidentally I had. So I drug myself outside to feed the ungrateful hungry mouths and take the dog out so I could watch him sniff the same clump of grass for like, five minutes before I went into the house and latched onto the tea maker like some sort of remora.

A caffeine remora.

Once I felt like a person again we gathered our shit together and trooped on outside to put this damn thing together. At first it went pretty well. We took the back and the top, which I was calling the roof piece and hinged them together by laying them down on the sawhorses we had made and getting all crazy with it. Other then having to allow for some warping on the frames themselves, it was pretty easy.

Then we took the back with the top still folded all neatly in and I held it up while Scott hinged it to a board which he then bolted to the deck. So basically I just stood there and held the thing upright and thought about lunch while he did most of the work. Which of course left me totally unprepared for round two, putting the big front door on. Because this whole thing hinges together. So when you take the back, which pivots, and the top which pivots, and try to hold them at the correct angle for the front attachment by yourself with no end cap pieces on, everything goes straight down the pooper.

For one thing, plastic on plastic is slippery as shit. And of course we hadn't thought to, you know, maybe, put a stop on the front to keep the plastic door piece from just sliding off the front like the worlds worst carpentry based Slip N Slide. So I had to stand in front of the whole thing, keeping the front piece in place with my knees, which by the way were super happy about that, while holding the angle on the side with my hands, while the plastic slid everywhere and I pictured setting fire to the whole world with my mind.

So then we had to do a complicated dance because Scott needed to get where I was and I had to move which meant that I had to control everything by only holding the damn thing at one end and that was how I ended up injuring my shoulder bursting into tears, and then yelling about how I couldn't hold this thing anymore and Scott ran around slapping temporary bracing on the fucking thing until I could let go of it. Then I went inside and sobbed into a cup of shitty black tea from the Walmart while Scott looked stricken and tried to come up with a way to avoid this problem the next time.

He did not like my suggestion of burning it to the fucking ground.

 Burn it. Burn it all.

Now however, we could see the angles and could cut the end pieces out so that, you know, it would finally have some support that didn't involve my right arm. Then we made the end pieces and the bracing for the center, and slapped a coat of paint on those motherfuckers so that when we came back the next day all we had to do was bolt that bitch together and call it good.

 This thing had better fucking work.

 So after tweaking a few things, and obviously attaching the last front door we were all like yay we can move it now! And then it rained like a mofo. Because life that's why. So there are still a few things we will need to do on site, like attach the end doors, and replace a few bolts and argue about where to put it, but other then that it's good to go. It will probably be set up and ready you know, a week before we have to take it down, but whatever. Let's roll with them punches.

The plastic shoulder punches.

Hay Storage, Raising the Logs.

So in between going to work and whatnot, I managed to get a coat of that wood sealer stuff on my logs. I also added a second treatment to the below ground area which I measured out on each log and then treated with another preserver designed for fence posts because fuck rot that's why.

So then the next step was to get those suckers into the ground. So we hopped into the car and went off to buy some Quickcrete except we were trying to do this on a weekend. Which went pretty much exactly like you would think trying to find an open hardware store in rural West Virgina on a Saturday would go.

Luckily we found somewhere with super fun marked up prices and then carted our prize home. Then it was a simple matter of hauling the trees over to the holes, and standing them up. Except that when we put the first one in water came flooding up out of the hole because of course the holes would still be wetter then the bottom of the ocean.

The really unfortunate part, however, came from the fact that, when you gather only the biggest logs, they might be a tad bigger then the holes. And because I had marked all the logs to paint on an extra layer of sealer, we got to see exactly how far off we were. So after a lot of swearing and doing arcane things with the pry bar we gave up, got the backhoe and then proceeded to shove all the logs down into the holes using the back bucket.

You know, when it really comes down to it, is there any problem a backhoe can't solve?

Anywho, then it was time to level them. At first we tried using two levels, but of course upside down tree trunks are not perfectly straight so in the end we went with the 'aw fuck it close enough' method.

So while Scott held the trunks at that mysterious 'pretty much level' spot I poured in the Quickcrete. Which was kinda sad because the more Quickcrete we poured in, the more water would pour out the top. Also I learned that the 60 pound bag is really fucking hard to pick up. It's kinda squashy. And also lacks handles. Also the bag is made out of like, paper or some shit so it's like ridiculously easy to rip it and end up pouring like, way a lot too much into the hole.

I'm just saying is all.

So then I poured in the Quickcrete and added a final layer of dirt on top and then we tamped everything down and then felt really victorious. So victorious that we went and cut a whole mess of thin boards with the motherfucking table saw to make up the sides, since I want the sides to be somewhat open to allow air to move through.

Then I felt really good about myself and what we had done. Until that is I discovered I had some sawdust in my left eye that no one could see but that I could feel was there. And then I freaked the fuck out and shined a flashlight into my retina and tried everything I could think of and the Internet told me I had a scratched cornea and that I was going to go blind and/or die and then I got really freaked out and made Scott look at my eyeball like a billion times until I think he thought I was hallucinating.

You know, because those sawdust hallucinations are so common around these parts.

After like, the entire fucking evening I was pretty sure I was going to have to go to the clinic and explain how I had gotten possible imaginary sawdust in my eyeball when I decided that I should probably just go to bed. Luckily overnight it worked itself out and I was able to wipe it out of my eye in the morning. Less lucky were all the dreams I had about being in Ohio during a tornado and trying to both evade the twister and the evil ranchers who were trying to price me out of my cattle farm.

Look I don't know why my brain associates sawdust in my eyeball with Bonanza and the Wizard of Oz the Ohio Version, but it does. Okay? Stop judging me.

I could have got that sawdust in my eye FROM A TORNADO.

Or you know, a railroad tie. Tornadoes are fickle like that. Or at least the imaginary dream tornadoes I invented to make a point are.

Look, I think the real lesson here is that sawdust is an asshole that will get you even through safety glasses.

Asshole sawdust.

Getting Logs for Hay Storage and Beyond.

Today we gathered logs. I needed four to make the uprights for my hay storage shed and also we needed to start getting logs for the house. You know, that house thing that I mentioned we would be building and then never mentioned again? You know, the one that you have had exactly zero updates on? Yeah that house. We are still intending on building it. So today, in the hot as shit motherfucking weather we went out into the back acres to get ourselves some trees.

Some heavy ass trees.

Of course Scott was all like didn't you pick the trees you wanted in advance? And I'm all like ha ha no, that would have required planning. Luckily there was a downed pine we were planning on using for the house that had taken a smaller pine with it when it fell because trees can be dicks like that. Of course it had fallen in the middle of a rock bar, which for those of you that don't know, is an area that is filled with rocks. All the rocks. In this case rocks covered with a thin layer of forest duff. So pretty much it was an adventure of not twisting our ankles. So we cut them bitches up, getting four logs for the house and two for the hay rack and then had to find two more trees. Which of course was fun.

I also should point out that I hate killing healthy live trees because deep inside me lives a tree hugging hippy. But then again I also hate digging through a foot of snow to get to my hay pile, so I thought downing a few maples was probably the lesser of two evils. Also Scott wanted the rest of the maple for the house. Because we like to use every part of the tree. Like the buffalo. Except less edible.

Anywho so we cut down the trees and then we realize that it's way, way too goddamned hot. Like August hot because the weather just likes to fuck with us for no reason. So we decide to move the giant ass house logs the next day, and get my hay logs into the truck and up to the farm yard so I can debark them.

Unfortunately we had to drag the logs out by wrapping ratchet straps around them because the rock bar was filled with treachery. So at one point Scott was on the front pulling the log with the ratchet and I was in the back heaving the ass end of the log over rocks and the other downed trees while every fly ever buzzed around my head and I began to realize why America lost the majority of it's farm generation. Cause that shit sucked. Also Scott had interpreted my desire to build a hay storage unit that would last forever as I must cut down only the biggest trees for her. Which was probably an attempt to prove his manliness but which meant it took two people to lift one end of the giant ass trees into the pickup.

Did I mention that the trees were between 12 and 14 feet tall?

Yeah.

So we fought them bitches into the truck and then drove them up to the farm yard and stacked them on boards to keep them off the ground. Now all I have to do is debark them. Which I have no idea how to do. So I am going to watch every Youtube video ever. Which will probably max out my internet and then I won't be able to get to my blog at all but whatever.

I mean how hard can it be?

I know, I know, it's going to be terrible. And you are going to get to read about it. I think you have the better end of the deal, really.

Things I have Learned About Myself: Back Injury Addition.

Over the course of having this injury I have learned several keys things.

One is that prescription strength topical muscle relaxant, the kind that comes in a cream that you rub on to your back, will make me stoned. Like, I can't read text because the words don't make sense to my eye balls stoned. Of course at the time I found myself wandering around the house going this doesn't make sense, why is this happening? This shit was topical.

I don't know exactly how much of the medication was on me, but I do know that the relief from the endless grinding pain and the sudden influx of localized medication was enough to drive me to spending a considerable amount of my day watching GIFs of cats falling into fish tanks or off desks, or dogs jumping into swimming pools. I was however very grateful that I had not attempted to put his shit on and then go to work.

Or course this was until the meds wore off. Then we came to lesson number two.

Lesson number two is what I would like to call my Bastardization of Murphy's Law. Murphy's Law -for those of you who somehow missed this- states: Anything that can go wrong, will go wrong. My version reads a little something like this:

Holly's Law: When a negative event occurs, another negative event will occur in correlation that will compound the original problem. Often the outcome will be greater (more negative) then the sum of it's original parts.

I realize that this should be impossible, or at least impossible from a physics stand point unless we finally find a better working alternative to string theory, but I assure you it's true.

Because while I was in throws of back injury fun time, which I would also like to point out is also sit carefully and no sleep for you time, the dog got sick.

And when I say 'sick' I mean 'have diarrhea all over everything forever.' Which meant of course that I was being woken out of a unsound sleep to the sound of the dog needed to go out, which was followed by the sound of the husband not reacting in time, which was followed by the sound of me sitting bolt upright in bed and my back screaming in pain as the dog pooped on the floor.

Or course all of this would happen when I was attempting to go to work during the day. Meaning that I would get home, asses the damage, clean it up, get the husband to take the dog who is deadly afraid of him outside, go to bed, and repeat from beginning at about two am to six am.

Which brings me back to the bit about the outcome being worse then the sum of it's parts.

Of course this folds all into lesson number three.

Which was that when you take all of life's normal irritations, and combine them with nagging lingering pain that I was not sure would ever go away at that point, I turned into a raving bitch. It took all of my giving a damn to go to work, so all of my giving a damn for anything else was just motherfucking gone.

Let me put it this way.

You know all those things that you think in the back of your mind, but never say?

I said them.

Okay, like in the back of your head still lives teenage you and that person is still a whiny, short sighted, know it all kid? You know the voice that is always like life is not fair, and wants the world to revolve around you, and dreams of being treated like royalty no matter what? But as you get older you learn to shut her ass up and be grateful for what you have because that is what life is about.

Yeah. Just imagine letting her run the show for a week.

Of course once I was on that runaway train there was no turning back. I rode that irrationally angry train all the way to the last stop- we-are-all-sick-of-your-shits-ville.

Hopefully now though I am on the bus to making-this-whole-thing-a-bad-memory-ington.

So lets just say I am on the road to recovery.

It sounds a lot better then saying how I lost my shit over a bagel this morning.

A Story Contest and Some Back Pain

Well since my back was all like, ha ha I'm fucked up, I found I had some extra time to finally clean up my files instead of saving everything to the desktop and then being all I'll come back to this later. And by 'later' I meant 'never.' Which is when I discovered this.

So like, a long time ago, NPR had a Three Minute Fiction Contest looking for a story, under 600 words that was in the form of a voice mail. They said something about wanting the 'texture of voice' and 'spontaneity and intensity' or some shit. So I entered thinking “I write shit for the internet all the time! How hard could this be? I'll slap on a little drama, a little pathos, a little of that special Holly brand insanity and then BAM! This contest will be in the motherfucking bag.”

Then Scott pointed out that you can't curse on the radio. Not even a little bit.

Well fuck.

Anyway, I wrote down my story and submitted it. And NPR refused to acknowledge my greatness didn't pick my story. So I decided at this point, that they don't get to keep it anymore and I am free to put it up on my blog.

So here goes. This is my story, in 600 words or less in the form of a voice mail message:

Jen, unrequited.

Hey Jen, it's me. I was just calling to say congratulations. He sounds like a lot of fun. I guess I didn't think about what time it would be there. I was just hoping you were happy and I called to tell you that even though we don't talk much well, I'm still your friend. You know that right?

Right?

Okay.

Listen.

Do you remember the time that we found out the mall was unlocked and snuck inside and stole a can of whipped cream from the coffee island and then had to hide under the counter where the trash can was until the janitor came past and then we ran outside and ate it down by the water while watching the lights of the city? Do you?

Or the time that you left all your projects until the last week and then stayed up for almost two days straight and then you thought the masks on your wall were talking to you? And I had to take the last bus to your house and I wasn't allowed to leave or go to sleep because the masks, it turns out, weren't exactly your friends.

You know, I'll never understand why you kept those things.

Do you remember the time that we stayed up all night watching Star Trek and then at dawn you turned to me and told me that you thought Captain Kirk was the hottest Star Fleet captain in the whole world and then I dressed up as him for Halloween that year? Then you got really drunk and we left the party with a bottle and sat under that big oak tree at the end of the street in front of the church and watched the stars fade away and I was so close to kissing you then?

Do you?

Jen?

Okay, this is just like the time I snorted that sugar packet up my nose. Stupid and impulsive and useless and abrasive and it burned for like, two hours and I tasted sugar for two straight days. What I'm trying to say, is that maybe I shouldn't have called you.

I guess, I don't know, I guess what I really wanted to say was- is- goodbye.

Goodbye.

Jen.

Putting Newspaper in the Garden: The Agony

So a few days ago it was finally warm and dry enough to till the garden. So Scott got the tiller out and gave it a tune up and then it wouldn't start. So he spent most of the day fighting with it and fabricating parts and swearing and doing arcane things to the engine. Finally he gave up and dosed the thing in carburetor cleaner and then for some reason it started right up. As long as nobody touched the choke.

Well, since victory was his he went and tilled the garden. Which meant that the next morning I was up and about and determined to get the newspaper cover down as soon as possible before the weeds had a chance to recover. Otherwise the garden turns back into a meadow and gives us the finger.

And nobody wants that.

So I gathered all the tools I would need, and of course a fuck ton of newspaper, and put down exactly four sheets. I know it was four sheets because on the fifth sheet my back went GERNT. Or something of the sort.

Then I had an adventure standing back up. And by 'adventure' I mean 'I had thrown my back out somewhat.' And by 'somewhat' and I mean 'thank the dear sweet lord baby Jesus I can stand up.' So I drug myself into the house and told Scott he was on his own now.

So the rest of the day I tried to help out. Although it was the kind of help that does not involve bending down, or kneeling or being that helpful. It was mostly a dull ache, up until I moved the wrong way and then my back would be all, OMG WTF FUCK FUCK FUCK ARRRGGGHHHHH FUCK WHAT DID YOU DO? ADFKSDHSHKHDSFHFDSH! And I would be all like, I DON'T KNOW I'M SORRY I'M SORRY I'M SORRY!

So that was fun.

Then I tried to fix it by getting drunk, but that super didn't work at work at all ever because I realized that falling face first into bed means that once the alcohol wears off there will be white hot pokers in your spine for ever and ever. Then the next morning I learned that sleeping on your stomach is the worst position ever for back pain. And by morning I mean 1am because there ain't no sleeping after that shit.

Luckily after a few days of not going to work or making money or getting shit done I feel a lot better. Yesterday was the first day that I could walk around and feed the pets and so forth without involuntarily yelling a whole bunch of random words like HUAAGH and AUUUGGHH and HOOOOAAAAYY.

Which is a big improvement really.

Today my back is very stiff but at least I can type things again. Also I am super thankful that I only got stuck on the floor once. Ha ha it's the little things. Also you know what's kinda cold? The floor. Also kinda dirty, but I have been unable to vacuum it due to horrible pain. Except today I probably could of but fuck it I am on vacation.

A pain vacation.

Pros: Great excuse for trying to read the entire internet.

Cons: Excruciating pain.

Eh, all in all I wouldn't recommend it. Just an FYI there.

Replacing Wheel Struts is the Worst Thing Ever.

Or alternatively, replacing the struts in the cold is like that one scene in Star Wars where Luke learns that he has to go to the Dagobah system only I learned that the air compressor scares me because it's kind of a dick. So today we decided that we were going to replace the rear wheel struts on the car. This job was something that we had wanted to began yesterday, but then the auto shop gave us the wrong part and then we had to drive to town to get another one because ha ha ha life. Did I mention the high today was 37?

The high today was 37. Degrees. That was it.

Anyway, so we get the strut out of the box, optimistically, and then we jack up the car and get the tire off and then everything went to hell in a poop basket. Now what you have to understand, is the strut is that part with the giant-ass-holy-motherfuck-that's-huge spring on it. It is connected to the rotor which is the bit that makes the car stop. So the strut connects to the break. That's all you need to know.

Except there was one other piece. One other traitorous low down bitch faced part. And that part is the part I can never remember the name of. Scott told me it was the sway bar control link. I spent the day referring to it as the Patrick Swayze bar.

Because I am adult and no one can tell me to stop acting like a 10 year old.

So the first problem is some other fucking idiot mechanic had placed the bolts into the strut in such a way that we could not remove the strut from the car without taking out the break caliper- also known as that part I never want to touch again after that time we replaced the break pads. After we did that, we discover that the bolt on the Patrick Swayze bar was stuck. Like super really a lot stuck. Like it took 45 minutes, a broken allen key, and two broken sockets before we gave up and sawzalled the piece off.

Which pretty much meant that we were ordering more parts.

Because who doesn't love pouring additional money and time into a project you didn't feel like doing in the first place? Anyway, about that point we discovered that getting the new strut in was god awful.

One person had to lift the strut up, deep into the wheel well, keep everything perfectly lined up, fight the damn break system out of the way, while the second person had to lean way into the trunk and verbally guide the piece into the bolt hole and then bolt it in place. This took two attempts. Oh and clamps that we placed on the spring to allow us to work with it kept hitting the wheel well. Ha ha. Annddd also at this point it started snowing.

Because fuck spring that's why.

Anywho, we got the damn thing in place, lined up and bolted in place up top. Then all we had to do was bolt it at the bottom. Seeing that Scott, who had been doing the bulk of the lifting, was tired enough to turn into the undead at any moment, I sent him inside, saying that I would put the last two bolts in.

Childbirth probably would have been easier.

Also, I pulled an ass muscle.

Okay.

So the problem now was that the break assembly was just sort of hanging there, so to get the bottom bolt in, I had to lift it. This was not so bad, and I was able to slide the bolt in rather painlessly. The only problem now was that I had turned the bottom into a fulcrum point, meaning that the top was still leaning out and down. Which would mean I was going to have to use my 145 pound ass to shove the break rotor up with one hand, while putting the bolt in with the other.

It took everything I had and then some. At one point, I had my right shoulder resting on my right hand, with only the palm on the rotor because I didn't want to put pressure on that rotor plate guard thingy, with my legs doing that thing where you shove them into the ground and push hard so it looks like you are trying to run in place while you are half laying down.

Which is how I pulled that ass muscle.

I remember sitting there, in my half mud, half ice driveway, breathing hard, thinking that I had given this fucking thing everything I had, and I still couldn't do it. Snow flakes, the light fluffy, lazy kind, the kind that zig zag to the ground, were falling around me, catching on my hat and landing soundlessly on my gloves. The sun was slipping behind our ridge, painting the sky with crazy blues and purples and leaving the heavens lit while the earth slipped into cold shadow. My hands were stinging and my feet, even through three socks and insulated boots, were throbbing to the beat of my heart. The wind whipped past making my cheeks sting, bringing me back from that tired fugue to the world where I was facing off against my car, kneeling on a wet soggy board.

And I summoned my anger.

I thought about everything that had ever pissed me off. Every single person that gave fuel to that terrible voice in my head that tells me that I am not good enough. That tells me I am weak and pathetic and stupid and makes fun of me for being afraid of the air compressor.

And I told that voice to go fuck itself. To go fuck itself so hard. And then I shoved that goddamned motherfucking, son of bitch break rotor up and crammed the bolt in place.

Because I am awesome. Then I walked the victory limp pulled ass muscle walk back to the house to tell Scott that I was the queen of the strut assembly.

At least until we have to do the other side.

Fuck.

Moving Cinder Blocks and Why I Hate Them.

Today, today we moved all our random ass piles of cinder blocks, bricks, fire brinks and chimney blocks.

Everything is pain now.

First off I couldn't find my gloves. No wait that's not right. I could only find right hand gloves. I found three right hand gloves. I finally gave up and wore one of Scott's gloves on my left hand. It's like some one handed person broke into my mobile home and stole all my left hand gloves. Or all the left hand gloves joined a cult somewhere. Somewhere that understands them. Somewhere they won't be made fun of for being the non dominate hand. Right hand gloves are such stuck up assholes.

So one glove was a little loose is what I am saying.

Then we get out there, in the woods, next to these piles. I dunno where these piles came from. I assume that my dad put them there, but who knows. Maybe they are like cinder block fairy mounds. Any who, we back up the truck and start loading.

Doesn't that sound so tidy? We started loading. That conveys nothing of the excitement of hauling cinder blocks down an embankment and sloshing through a ditch. Luckily, I only ended up soaking my left foot through once! And I only twisted my ankle once too!

Lucky me!

Not only are cinder blocks as ugly as a chicken's butt hole, they are also heavy as hell. These particular blocks also had remnants of paint on them. Hideous paint. Sky blue and red. Like red red. Like fire engine red. Super red. The kind of red that makes me think of the Shining. That red.

After we had a truck full we took then over to where we are planning on putting that house and used them to hold the damn sand pile in. I don't know if you are aware of this, but if you put sand in a big pile it acts like a liquid, in that it will start to ooze itself flat. Until your four foot hight sand pile is a light dusting of sand all over your lawn. We were previously aware of this fact, but had only placed support on one side of the pile because being prepared for crap takes like time and energy and shit.

Which of course meant that we were shoveling the sand back into the pile while lining it with blocks. Also I noticed that the tarp was loose and the cats had been pooping in it.

Bastards.

I was standing in the truck, passing the blocks and bricks out to Scott who was stacking them. First off, you might think that this is the easier of the two jobs, but ha, ha ha ha haaaaaaa ha. The thing is, you really don't get to like, straighten up so your back is feeling that weird tense thing that is not quite a pain but really close to it sensation. What I did not anticipate however, is that once we were done and I hopped down to suck more caffeine into my face like a hummingbird, was my knees.

You know how as you get older you start having denial about your own health problems? Yeah. I kinda knew for a while that I was having knee problems. Like I'd be sitting in my chair an then I'd go to pull one leg up under me an my knee would get halfway and then I'd have to stop because it didn't want to go anymore. Yeah. That shit.

Somehow I don't think that today made them any better. I pretty much feel like I was playing that Head Shoulder Knees and Toes game but instead of pointing to the body part in question, I just mentally checked it off in my head as hurting.

Yeah. So I think it's video game time. Because nothing makes me feel better like swinging a sword into a monster's face. And then setting it on fire.

Skyrim is so awesome.

Storm Time, the Reckoning

Just so we're clear, sleeping on the floor was the worst idea I ever had. Even worse then the time I drank all that Southern Comfort and then thought it would be cool to get on the bus.*

By the time morning had reared it's grim head we both looked like clockwork zombies** that had just recently risen from the grave. Scott was yelling shit about how his legs felt broken and he might never walk again and I felt like somebody had just punched me between the shoulder blades and then tried to sever my right arm. Possibly also by punching.

I mean, it's not like we had anything to do that day, like oh I don't know, take the propane tanks off my other mobile home cut more of the trees blocking the drive and desperately try to replace the blower motor on the wood stove before the propane runs out and we were fucked. I mean, it's not like we had that to do or anything.

Well the first order of the day was to dig out the cars and replace the blower motor on the wood stove. So while Scott went to replace the motor I went to shovel out the car and the truck. I will say right now that shoveling wet snow that weighs a shit ton after sleeping on the floor all night in the cold was the most painful thing ever, or at least it was until chunks of ice started falling off the trees and hitting me.

You ever been hit with a chunk of ice in the boob? Wouldn't recommend it.

After I had removed most of the snow Scott comes around and tells me he needs a hand with the stove. Now what you have to understand is that my dad built the surround for the current blower motor. A surround which, as we learned, was impossible to remove. Or at least it was before I got the motherfucking tin snips. The good news is I only cut myself five times!

Let me just say that it was an adventure.

Once I had vanquished the evil duct work surround monster it was merely a game of wrestling the new one in place and wiring it up.

Luckily while we were busy getting cut the fuck up our neighbors had taken a tractor our and were busy clearing the rest of the trees off the road. They were then followed by the road crew who got all the ones we couldn't get, including part of that fucker at the end of the drive. They were in turn followed by the plow.

At the end of the day the road looked like this:

 WV at it's finest.

However, instead of revealing in our new found road we had to immediately turn about and prepare to drag the propane tanks over. The propane tanks that hate us. Deeply. First off each one had to be disconnected and hauled onto a sled. Then I would pull the sled and and Scott would fight to keep the bastard upright as we fought our way up and down slopes and over ditches. I did learn something by the second one though. Namely that my arms would never forgive me. At last we hooked up the tanks to our backup propane heater, fired up the wood stove and proceeded to make it 75 inside.

We promptly rewarded ourselves by melting snow over the stove and taking sponge baths while joking about making Little House on the Prairie style Ma Ingall porn. We're not right, really. Then I drank like five vodka cocos (possibly to wash the aforementioned image out of my mind) and started making all kinds of weird statements like “In soviet Russia, vodka coco drink you” and “In old country it used to snow, all the time, but we were never sad, for we had vodka. And coco. Together.”

And then I went to bed and slept like the dead and woke up with a motherfucking hangover. There is a lesson in here somewhere.

And I think that lesson is, don't sleep in the floor.

*Yeah. Never do that by the way.

**Best band name ever.

 

Want more sadness Storm Tales? Here's Day 4.

  Confused? Here's Day 1 of Power Outage Fun Time.

 

How to Can Food In 12 Easy Steps.

How to can food in 12 easy steps.

Things you will need:

A working stove, fresh produce, a recipe, a big pot, a little pot, a sink, some clean towels, a ladle, a spoon, a mega shit ton of jars and lids, metal tongs, and a timer.

Optional things include:

Labels for the jars, counter space, a willingness to laugh at yourself and potholders.

Step 1.

Make sure you have necessary ingredients for canning. If making Jam or Jelly you will most likely need pectin and a lot of recipes for jam call for enough sugar to murder several diabetics. Also, do not optimistically assume you will have enough jars. You must have more jars then you need or you will find yourself either driving to the store at breakneck speed or eating jam for dinner for three nights in a row until your teeth ache.

Step 2.

Prepare your fresh ingredients and add them to the big pot as per your recipe instructions. Set timer so that you will not over cook the ingredients you slaved over growing and picking in the hot ass summer sun.

Step 3.

Wash each of your jars and lids in hot water and rinse in warm water. If you forget to rinse jars in warm water you might be in for a 'surprise.'* Set timer.

Step 4.

Forget about timer. Almost drop jar you are washing when it goes off. Scramble to shut off heat and stir your glop. Proceed to step 5.

Step 5.

Realize that you were supposed to have put the lids into boiling water before placing them on jars. Scramble to boil water with tea maker before your glop gets cold and you are fucked.

Step 6.

Reread directions and realize that they meant only the lids and not the rings. Try to fish rings out of boiling hot water before timer goes off again. Burn self while trying to get rings to cool off. Began to contemplate why you wanted to can your own food in the first place.

Step 7.

Have contemplation time broken by sound of timer. Carefully bring your jars over and arrange them for ease of filling. Grab ladle and began filling jars. Immediately spill a bunch of your glop over half the jars. Overfill first jar so that you have to try to dump it into another jar. The glop, and therefore by extension the jars, will be burning hot. Burn hands for the second time.

Step 8.

Wipe down the rims and threads of jars with a clean cloth or paper towel. Jars will be as hot as the surface of the sun. Any potholders you may use to ease this step along will become sticky or filthy as fuck all. Proceed to Step 9.

Step 9.

Carefully try to fish lids out of boiling water with a pair of tongs. Come to conclusion that this is impossible. Come to conclusion that lids do not want to come apart and also do not want to come out of the pot. Wrestle each lid out while cursing the cold uncaring universe that brought you to this point. If you have enlisted help in this endeavor, this is an excellent time for them to make sarcastic remarks about the how jars are cooling off and you are taking forever. Lid jars.

Step 10.

Add rings. Burn hands like a motherfucker. Remember fondly when you used to have fingerprints. Use non sticky potholders or clean towels to tighten the rings and invert jars for five minutes.

Step 11.

After five minutes turn jars right side up and leave for 24 hours. Curse wildly as you try to clean up because hot water plus finger burns equals oh god sweet Jesus motherfuckers. Find out that glop will harden like motherfucking epoxy. If making jam learn that this is the stickiest substance known to man.

Step 12.

After 24 hours test jars. You can label them at this time. Resist urge to label jars with curse words. They should be uniform in color and the lids should not have any give. If lids pop they must be refrigerated and eaten with a week or so. End up with way too much of whatever you made. Give some of it away. Give a lot of it away. Resign self to eating a shit ton of whatever you just made. Weep softy into your burned hands, drink heavily.

There you have it! How to can food in 12 easy steps. Be sure to catch the other tutorials such as How to denail a board in 10 easy steps.

* I've heard if you miss this step the jars might explode. (Cold jar, boiling food you figure it out.) I've never seen it happen, but then I've been really careful about that. I like to keep explosions in my kitchen to a minimum.

The retaining wall. Oh god the retaining wall.

Either I have gotten out of shape, or I have forgotten just how much pain I can be in after moving giant ass rocks all day.

We rebuilt a whole bunch of it today.

What we did was pull rocks off the top and then place them at the bottom to form a new bottom layer which we slowly integrated back up into the existing wall. I had, in a fit of planning collected rocks to be used in the rebuild. I had spent four fucking days doing nothing but collecting rock. I thought we would have enough.

We didn't.

It was handy to have them all there, as we had already moved them to the site, but there was still a lot of cursing and pain and sadness.

About halfway through the day I was alternately making a sort of whimpering sound that was also mixed with the grunt growl that people make when they are moving something heavy.

I'm pretty sure I sounded like a killer whale giving birth.

It was also as humid as the inside of a sauna. A sauna that is also filled with insects that will bite me even though I have two different kinds of bug spray on and really WTF nature?

Also at one point during this epic battle of wills between me and a slope I was ferrying rocks around in my tank top.

I'll explain.

We needed some smaller rocks, but of course we had already used up all of the one's around the wall, so I went off in search of more rocks. Except now the meadows have sprang up so I ended up having to go farther and farther into the woods for rocks and then of course I can only carry so many at a time. So I just flipped my tank top bottom over to make a sort of pouch and shoved rocks in there because none of the buckets were anywhere near where I was working. As in I would have had to have walked back down the driveway, through the yard, past the rabbit hutches and past the chicken coup to get one.

Of course I think I'm out a tank top now.

Anyway it was 'the terrible picking up the heavy rocks but now I have to throw them down to bottom of the retaining wall with out falling over the edge and dieing' edition.

So now I feel like my body has been pummeled and I find myself kinda zoning out while I am looking at the screen.

Wha?

Oh yeah. The blog.

I think I should just go to bed now.

Zzzzzzzzzzz.

Cutting Hay the Really Hard Way.

So yesterday besides the excitement of rescuing a baby deer fawn, we made hay. Lot's and lot's of hay.

Probably too much hay. Because the weather had been uncooperative, I basically had one day in which to make all my hay so that it would be good and dry before I stored it because wet hay can catch on fire and burn your shit to the ground. No pressure or anything though.

Now being me, I make my hay by hand, with a scythe. Which is fun, but also requires a lot of upper body strength.

So I did what any red blooded American does when they are faced with a enormous, labor intensive task of herculean proportions, I drank a bitchshitton of caffeine. Which worked like a charm really. I was the first one out to scythe since Scott was cleaning his office that morning. It was a beautiful day. The temperature was perfect, with a deep blue sky dotted with puffy white clouds and a swift clear breeze. And about eighty bazillion flies. And we were out of bug spray.

After searching both mobile homes, I managed to find a tube of suntan lotion that also contained bug spray and smeared it all over me. Which did work, for about half an hour. Luckily, Scott dug through our travel bags and located some before the insects were able to lift me off and carry me to their terrible kingdom of itchiness.*

I was really enjoying myself. I could watch the birds in the sky, and see the shadows of the clouds slide along our ridge. The caffeine masked any tiredness and aching and I was left to enjoy the labor and the day.

That is until we finished with the upper meadows.

The upper meadows are more sparse, as they used to be grazing for horses and still shows the signs of overgrazing even all these years later. So cutting the hay out of them is relatively easy. But the lower meadows, oh god they are as dense as motherfucking antimatter.

Now the upper meadows we sort of seeded lazily if at all, same with weed removal.

But the lower meadow, I had a goal. I was going to make a hay field. Not just any hay field, the best goddamned hay field the world had ever seen. So I spent two years cutting the weeds back. And then we seeded it with grass seed and then when the grass came up I hand harvested it for fresh treats and bedding for my bunnies. Always being careful to never take to much from one area and to watch the ratio of plants to judge the health of the soil.

And this year the grass was as tall as me.

Which was both awesome and terrible. Awesome because that is some good ass hay right there, and terrible because cutting it by hand was pretty fucking awful.

I couldn't do a full swing, so moving forward one step involved several passes. Also, there was no way to see the ground beneath my feet, so I kept hitting my scythe on rocks and stumps and shit.

Fun.

But we goddamed did it. Even with an angry mama deer breathing down our necks and watching us from the safety of the forest thinking dark malevolent thoughts.

Except that by the end of day my arms were shot. I have to explain that my right arm takes almost the full wight of the scythe, and it hurt like a bitch. It hurt almost as bad as when I had broken my finger. Once the caffeine wore off I sent Scott to the store for beer. Except I had forgotten that my painkillers were in the car that he had left in to obtain said beer.

Fuck.

Even taking a shower didn't help. It was like a achy dull pain that would intermittently form a sharp stabbing pain whenever the fuck it felt like it. So that evening was spent crawling around trying to find a position where my arm wouldn't hurt like hell (there wasn't one.)

It was one of those nights were you count down the minutes until you can reasonably go to bed because your body is shot and you are covered in bug bites. And sunburn.

Yeah.

Nothing quite like this glamorous farm life.

Kill me.

*It 'tis a terrible place.

A Chipper Shredingly Good Time.

Do you remember my battle with the terrible invasive species? And how I piled up their desecrated limbs to be chipper shredded at some point in the future?

That day had finally come. From this experience I have learned several things. One, the chipper shredder will not work on a non level surface. How much of this place is not level you ask? All of it. Number two, multiflora rose, even dead, still wants to cut a bitch, hardcore. And three, bush honeysuckle and multiflora rose make mulch that smells like the perfume of angels.

Which I got to enjoy for approximately one minute before my sinuses were made aware of the situation.

The rest of the day was spent sneezing and coughing and snerking.

Also, have you ever sneezed with hearing protection in? Like the kind that come on the little strings that you you shove painfully into each ear that make you really, really hyper aware of every time you smile? Yeah, well I wouldn't recommend it.

We had a plan. We were ready. And life just showed up and smacked us around for a bit. First off, it became apparent that my dad had never changed the oil in this damn thing. What was left in it was the consistency of black tar. So we drained it and added fresh, along with refilling the gas tank and giving it a general tune up. Test started it, and it ran like a dream.

So we picked up the end and pulled it across the front lawn to the first pile of dead branches. It was at this point we realized, all over again, how much multiflora rose hates us.* We also discovered that the collection bag did not like staying on, and how no matter how tight we made it, it would still gape open at the top and spew mulch out like a bulimic herbivore going through a bad break up.

But beyond that, things actually went kinda well.

Except for the fact that we couldn't find another level spot in the entire top third of our property except in the garden.** Which meant that I had to haul all the dead, and most often spiky branches from all over the meadows. And we also discovered that three huge piles of branches make three tiny piles of mulch.

Like seriously WTF? Is there some sort of worm hole in that thing?

Two branches enter one branch leaves***.

Anywho, at least I got even with that evil demon bitch multiflora rose.

Sonofabitchass plant.

*I cannot possible stress this enough. If anyone you know is planting this shit, please for the love of all that is good and holy talk them out of it. Or kill them. Either one.

**No wood mulch is not good for gardens necessarily, but we wanted something to edge it with to keep the weeds down.

*** If you get this joke I will high five you over the internet. Also, leaf pun FTW!

Multiflora Rose is a Demon Plant From Hell.

You might remember my previous entry about removing invasive species from my land. Specifically, mutiflora rose, and bush honeysuckle.

Here is three giant bushes in a row, oh boy lucky me.

 You know what, removing the bush honeysuckle was easy. Removing the multiflora rose was like being dropped into a nest of king snakes armed only with a bag of mixed vegetables. Even if you won, you were still gonna get fucked up.

I cannot began to describe the horror that is tearing down this plant. First of all, you have to cut the whole thing and move the whole thing as one unit because all the little thorns have stuck this plant together like Velcro. If Velcro was out to get you that is.

This is how it went down. First I would cut a hole into the side of the bush and then I would began to cut each think woody stem off at the base. Now, with bush honeysuckle, each limb could be drug away to the collection pile individuality. With multiflora rose, each limb would lock together in an evil tangly mass. I wanted to remove the whole plant and chipper shred the damn thing so that meant I had to drag each limb to the nearest road. Which meant that the plant had time to fuck my shit up.

I would optimistically grab a branch at it's very base, where there were no thorns, and give a yank. In a perfect world, this would either pull the branch free, or allow me to tow the whole bush along to the pile. In this world however, all that happened was that I would cause the remaining bush to sway wildly. Which, if you were me, meant you had an angry bush swinging wildly at you, trying to grab a handful of hair or claw at your face because apparently roses fight like drunk party girls.

Also, to add to pain, the thorns had a way of sneaking around my gloves or worse yet, falling down into my shoe and getting lodged in my sock. By the end of the day I looked like I had tried to wrestle a cougar.

Have you ever walked in the door and been afraid to look in the mirror because you are afraid that your land has cut up your face? No. Just me?

Luckily my face had escaped unscathed somehow. Mainly because I was not looking forward to trying to explain to my clients and coworkers why I looked like Freddie Krueger had found me in my sleep. I am also fairly sure that telling them the monster under the bed did it would not have been worth the looks on their faces because I need to keep my job in order to pay for things.

Which is exactly why I can't be trusted with this kind of injury.

At all.

The Battle Against the Terrible Invasive Species

Today was a day of epic battle. A day of terror and triumph. The day I decided to go cut down some of the motherfucking invasive species on my land.

Namely bush honeysuckle and multiflora rose. Bush honeysuckle being exactly what you would picture it being, a giant bush of honeysuckle. At this point you might also be wondering why I would want to remove it. It's honeysuckle, Everybody loves honeysuckle, the sweet smelling the flowers, the soft leaves, the nostalgia of a favored grandma keeping some in the back garden. Except that the kind that you remember was most likely the native vine honeysuckle, you know, the one where you can pull out the stamen and get a drop of pure nectar on your tongue.

The thing I'm talking about is an invasive demon bush from hell.

The thing about bush honeysuckle is that it wants your meadows. All of them. Here is a picture of it.

Give me your meadows, I have teh hunger.

It will eat up all the space you have and then some. Cows and horses won't touch it, and the cattle farm at the end of the road has a huge field that is nothing, nothing but bush honeysuckle. So I decided it was time for it to die.

Armed with a pair of clippers* I spent my day removing this devil plant from my fields. And woods. And meadows. And any other damn place I could find it. This was all practice though, a mock battle if you will, for the true horror of my day. A plant that makes strong men weep and brave men cower.

Mulitflora Rose. You demon bitch you.

Try to contain your frantic screams. It can no longer hurt you.

The thing you have to understand is that multiflora rose is a member of the rose family and it has thorns. Real, sharp curved thorns. I would let the bush honeysuckle live if it was along the road, and out of my way, but I single handily fought every single mulitflora rose I found. If left unchecked, this demon plant will take over as well spreading it's evil monoculture as far as the eye could see. I found it spreading along the ground, I found it climbing up the sides of trees, and I found giant bushes of this stuff. It was everywhere and it was very, very sharp.

Let me tell you something right now. Bush honeysuckle will accept it's fate and die quietly. Multiflora rose goes down kicking a screaming and failing. It hit me in the face and snaked it's evil tendrils around my legs and back and tried to trip me, and on multiple occasions cut right through my leather work gloves like they were made of cotton candy.

Fighting back multiflora rose was a lot like what I always thought fighting a dragon would be like, if the dragon couldn't breath fire for some reason.

Actually, it more like that scene from Lord of the Rings where Gandalf fights the Balrog, but specifically that bit where they land in the water and it's evil flame is extinguished because I was cutting right after it had rained.

Yeah like that.

Okay. Look, if anybody you know is all like 'hey I should plant some multiflora rose in my garden', you should fucking tackle them. I don't care if you are in the goddamned plant isle at the Lowes, you motherfucking tackle them because we can't let the mutiflora rose win you guys. We can't let it win.

I thirst for your blood puny human.

 

* I know I won't be able to remove it entirely, but my goal is only to mange it, not to eradicate it. Because eradicating it would mean salting the earth so nothing would ever grow again.

The Retaining Wall is Slowly Murdering Me.

We had to stop working on it. Our bodies gave out. I hit that point where I had to give myself a pep talk every single time I went to pick up a rock. You know, the heaviest rocks I can conceivably lift. Those rocks*. I mean just look at the amount of work we got done.

Yes, that is a full scale lawn chair. In case you were wondering. Also, at some point during this ordeal Scott did some more math and figured out that we did not have enough weight. Do you know how you add weight to the wall? More rocks, Ha ha ha, how ever did you guess?

So I'm a little bitter.

I never thought that I would find myself identifying with Boxer from animal farm and his 'I will work harder' mantra. But this retaining wall is taking everything I've got and then some. I hit some sort of wall yesterday where we both decided that we couldn't do this anymore. 

Glamor shot!

With the wall growing in height, it became impossible to use creekside rocks, which meant only one thing, we were headed for the rock bar. For those of you that don't know, a rock bar is a big strip of rocks that lay on the surface. They can be treacherous to walk in because most of the rocks are huge and the smaller rocks are kind of wedged between them. So we had the fun take of grabbing these motherfucking huge ass rocks and waddling through possibly shifting footing to the pickup. Yay.

For every two or three rock trips we would alternate with a fill load of dirt that King (the backhoe) had dug up for us 'cause he's cool like that. Because there is nothing better for your back then lifting heavy shit and then digging a whole bunch.

Kill me.

Any who, I feel like I have been fighting the landscape. And that the landscape was fighting dirty by slapping us with 80 degree temperatures in motherfucking March. WTF Nature?

Seriously WTF?

Nature was all like, 'oh you want to work outside all day? Well fuck that shit, BAM eighty degrees bitches, take that cocksuckers!'

And then we were all 'why nature, what have we ever done to you?'

And then nature flipped us off.

Yeah that's pretty much how it went down.

* I can not stress this enough.

Want more retaining wall adventure? Here's part three. 

Chicken Coup 4: The Paint-a-thon

EDIT: I wrote this post shortly before Christmas, but the holidays got in the way and I forgot to post it, so I'm sticking it up now. Don't judge me.

So, I managed to paint in the inside of the chicken coup in two caffeine filled days. My right arm feels like it is about to fall off. It was a bit unnerving to be up on a ladder, painting stuff above my head while practically vibrating from the caffeine.

But it's god damned DONE.

HA HA WHOO! Ahem.

The best part was stepping down off the ladder, and heaving a big sigh of relief, and looking down to see that my dog was covered in paint. I do not know how many dog owners feel about what I like to call emergency bath time, but I sure as hell don't enjoy it.

Now I maintain my dog is the best dog ever because she hopped reluctantly into the tub and stood mournfully while I cleaned her. It does not turn into a wet dog wrestling match. I am very thankful for this. On the other hand, though, she does love to shake her wet shampoo covered self. All over me. And the Bathroom. Towels? What the Fuck is that Towel shit? Towels are for pussies she says looking back at me while shaking herself all over the particle board cabinets*.

I don't think I will be able to paint the outside until spring however. It is simply going to be too cold. Somehow, I just can't work up the energy to give a damn about that.

* I am going to build a house no matter what. I don't care what it takes. I am so fucking sick of everything inside being made out of particle board.

Want more Chicken Coup Adventure? Here's Part Five.