I have a dream.
I want to have a homestead. You know, grow our own fruits and veggies, have chickens that lay eggs, maybe have a beehive or two for the honey. I’d love to have a few well-producing fruit trees too. Sure, I’d like to have a few acres to spread out on and have a few goats, and maybe even a llama or two in the mix, but that might not ever happen.
So, for now, I’ll have to content myself with becoming an urban homesteader. That means that I (we, really) will convert our poor, forlorn, overgrown lawn into a homesteader’s paradise. We’ll have raised garden beds with strawberries, tomatoes, chiles, squash and the like. We’ll have a vermicomposting bin somewhere (that’s worms for those of you who don’t do garden-speak). We’ll have a special area of potted herbs, and maybe even a beehive sometime. Yes, that’s legal around here. And safer than you’d think.
Here’s the problem. This is what our back yard currently looks like:
Nice, huh? So how will we accomplish this monumental task, you ask? Like the tortoise, we’ll plod along slowly, testing our mettle. We’ll plant a couple of beds this year and try our hand at growing some food. Next year we’ll plant a couple more beds. And maybe a fruit tree or two. And the year after? Maybe a beehive. Or a couple of laying hens, if the neighbors don’t tell on us. You never know. The possibilities are endless.
The point is, we’ll maximize. We’ll try to get the most out of what we’ve got. It’ll be great for the girls too. They love to be outside, and if they get to help grow their own food, then that will be all the better. Now, where’s my pitchfork?
P.S. I don’t know what’s up with the formatting. I’ve tried to fix it. Several times. I’ll come back tomorrow and try to fix it. Again. Argh.
I just have one question: is it normal for guys to have tons of underwear? I mean, really, isn’t it the gals who are supposed to have all the undies? Granted, a lot of it is for cute and/or sexy purposes, but we’re supposed to have all the clothes, right? Well, not so around here. My nearest and dearest has the market cornered in our house.
So, on the off chance that I don’t get laundry done (okay… make that regular event), he complains that he’s almost out of underwear. I can understand that. I mean, nothing says “I love you” like clean underwear, right? So I check his stocks. And I count. And I keep counting. And I count some more. How is 30 more pairs almost out?! I don’t have that many to start with! I guess it’s just like in the car when you hit the E on the gas gauge. E means 20 more miles, so why wouldn’t the E on the underwear drawer mean 30 more pairs?
My only consolation is this: when the nuclear war comes, and I’m instantly vaporized, my husband will have enough underwear to last through the apocalypse. He just might have to wash it himself.