A Day and A Degree of Difference

This morning Jane and I went for a beautiful walk with the dogs in the snow. We slipped and giggled, caught snow flakes on our tongues and came back soaking wet.

Tonight Clara and I slogged through the rain to visit Granny. We slipped and grumbled, squelched through mud puddles and came back soaking wet.

What a difference a day and a degree make.

Whistle

I’m not much of a musician. I try, somewhat, but my efforts, combined with my innate lack of musicality, mainly succeed only so much as to bring to mind a certain phrase about flogging a dead horse.

However, I excel at playing the dog whistle. While it might not be the most tuneful instrument around I always have a rapt and appreciative audience.

Chalk that up as another reason to love a good dog.

Because Reasons and Faces

Jane went to bed late tonight. In fact I still hear her rustling as I type this.

There were reasons of course. Ivy and I were too noisy. I didn’t tuck her in fast enough. She needed another book. She was starving…

There are always reasons.

And because I’m tired and she’s the baby and I did a completely crap job of making dinner so she probably is hungry because personally I’m starving, I let her stay up.

Also. She makes these faces…

Jane is going to bed way to late tonight. I’m not proud but these things happen because… reasons… and faces.

COVID Hygiene

COVID hygiene……. poor.

COVID hygiene with shower chickens …… terrible.

Our little rooster got in a fight with what I can only figure from his injuries was the loony toons boxing kangaroo. He’s convalescing in our shower with his lady friend until he stops seeing stars. In the meantime be you should all be grateful for social distancing!

A Trail of Water

I drink my water out of quart mason jars and litter them in my wake.

I fill them and lose them only to find them on counters and desks, on stools and the floor near the couch or the window by the bed.

This trail of water means that I occasionally have to deal with a kicked over quart of water (a thing that is only helpful if you were hoping to mop the floor anyway, which I never am). But this also means I never have to go searching for a watering can (a thing that my plants would appreciate, but I never think to do).

So in the end my water jars keep me hydrated, spot clean the floor and water the plants. Not bad for a forgetful habit enacted by a messy woman.

A Cup of Mud

I used to start my day with a cup of tea. Or four.

I liked it black and steeped until the astringent liquid would hit my tongue and jolt me into wakefulness.

I liked it hot in my hands before it was cool enough to drink.

I slopped it over the sides of my tea cup on the way down the driveway in the morning and figured the wet pants were a small price to pay.

I had extra cups on cold winter days and slow days and sad days and grumpy days. I had extra cups in celebration of warm mornings and happy occasions and book reading afternoons.

I always used to start my day with a cup of tea, or six.

But now… having become fairly intolerant of excessive amounts of caffeine, I start my day with a cup of Mud.

One cup.

Of mud.

MUD/WTR, as it is officially known, is lovely in a chocolaty dirt sort of way. I drink it with a bit of honey and milk. It’s warm and soothing and the bottom of the cup always contains an extra layer of gritty bitter sediment that if I close my eyes and squint as I knock the last bit back, I can almost pretend is akin to the tang of tea.

My morning mud is filled with mushrooms and turmeric and other things that are supposed to be great for me and most importantly just a smidgen of caffeine.

Nowadays tea gives me the attention span of a rabid squirrel with ADD if consumed in any amount that seems proper. Mud is like getting a warm hug in the morning and I’ve grown to love that hug (I’m big on hugs lately).

I used to start my day with a cup of tea or eight.

Now I have one cup of mud.