A Stream Flows Restless To the Sea

My laptop just burped and took out a post. Huh. Such is my ennui that I can't be mad. As Siobhan often observes: computers are trying to kill us. It is their spiteful, computery nature. I pity you, though, denied my brilliance. I mean, crap.

Tonight in the dehydrator: zucchini and tomatoes from our garden. Our tomatoes, though plentiful, were often hollow or had black spots. The growing season was tough on tomato plants: dry, wet for two months, then dry again. We could have used two more rain barrels, which I guess we'll pick up over the winter somehow. Tomorrow, I'll take down the last three plants. Later this week, Pete and I have a leaf mulcher to play with. I can't wait to dress up like goalies and shred some foliage. If this is as awesome as it seems like it might be I'm putting flame stickers on our gardening gloves.

Tomorrow, I'm really looking forward to warming up the chisels and the heat gun and stripping our bedroom door. Eons ago, someone painted the door using brown sand paint, which is a giant pain in the ass to remove without the heat gun. I could sand until I retire and never get a splinter and chemicals make a big mess without making much progress. So it's the heat gun, the smooth movements, the careful concentration and kicking myself when I forget and burn my hands. But: my rewards are time to think, which I love, and that all doors on the second floor will be matching bright white, which meets my obsessive-compulsive needs. I like to be the most disorderly thing in every room.