So almost everything is planted.

I've been putting the garden together since Friday. I only have some pumpkin and maybe some corn left. I haven't decided whether I'll plant corn or not.

Lots of vegetables have been planted and there's apples and cherries on the trees, raspberries on their canes. Hopefully it will be a good harvest. Or maybe it will suck, in which case I'm going to be mighty pissed.

I'm a little off tonight, so I'll apologize for that right now.

I went home to visit my family for the weekend. Got rubbed the wrong way a lot. Not sure why it works that way. I wish it didn't. So I came home exhausted Sunday (was up until 3 a.m. sawing a door open -- long story, maybe for another time), and have been in a foul state ever since.

It could be a writing issue. I have much better days when I write.

"Bison's Child" is still incomplete due to visits home (I promised my grandmother I'd come, so I did -- we had a great visit together) and putting the garden together. I think she's anxious, my story. Hey -- I'm anxious, too. Want to get it done. Want her to be finished. Want to be able to move on to What Comes Next.

So, tomorrow I have to write. Actually, there's a lot of things I need to do tomorrow that I'm behind on, and there's still more projects around the house to complete. It's neverending. But it's part of being a homeowner, part of being alive. And really, I have nothing to complain about. I'm just grumpy.

And my hands are blistered and the nails all messed up from playing in the dirt. And I have no hair on my right hand and fingers. Husband told me how to light grill and now I'm bald. Long story there, too.

So now I'm going to hope no one reads this because this was certainly long and boring and I could have done something better with my time (and anyone else's who got this far) by writing about Reagan, or suicice, or Rance, or any number of other things.

So I'll shut up now.