This very cold morning I succesfully lit my first fire in my brand new wood stove. (That sentence is misleading. It was not really the first fire, just the first successful one. My fire-building skills leave something to be desired. After my first attempt, I was sure that it was going to be a long cold winter if I didn't get my mommy to come start a fire for me that I wouldn't let go out until I was ready to move. Y'all know my only source of heat is that wood stove, right?)
In a related sign:
I've started stacking this huge pile of firewood. This isn't even all I'm getting. I have two more loads to look forward to. Fuck.
[ETA: I just tried to chop some kindling. Holy hell. I was smart enough to realize (fairly quickly) that flip-flops probably weren't the proper attire for swinging an axe. I could kill myself doing that shit. My mom and stepdad are planning to spend a week here while I'm in Belize later this month. Is it wrong to ask them to chop as much kindling as they can while they're here? Yes, they're older but . . . they're more competent than I am and, more importantly, they have health insurance. Not that I don't feel old right this minute. I can sense incipient back spasms from all the bending and lifting and stretching while carrying chunks of dead tree. I am the wimpiest wimp who ever wimped.]
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