Saturday, July 19, 2014

How this psycho gets ready to go back to a full time job.

In the usual Finny Is A Psycho tradition that you've come to expect, I spent my final moments before starting my new job last week killing my to do list.

Because nothing says accomplishment like cleaning the cat box.

Too bad I didn't have a second to spare before starting work because then I could have spent some much fantasized about time sitting naked atop this list.

Instead, I spent some much fantasized about time putting the spong away where I don't have to fucking see it.

What do you mean you can't see it either?

TEE DAH this only took me two hours and a hundred swears.
Yeah, I've wanted one of these tip out drawers for a hundred years and then I was nearing the moment when I was going to be out of free time forever because of the forthcoming full time farming job (YAY! I'm still so YAY over this. Obviously.) and then I was randomly reading some blogs and checked in on one of my faves and damnitall if girlfriend hadn't just put one in.

That tore it. I had to do it. IT WAS NOW OR NEVER. Otherwise I was going to have to look at that grody spong forever. And lest you think that I typoed back there, I did not. We call it a Spong. Like 'Dong' with a 'Sp'.

You get it.

And understand me.

Thanks for understanding. I like that about you guys.

Anyway, the spong and scrubber brush and drain stopper and just whatever the fuck else I decide I want to put in there have homes where I don't have to look at their grodiness.

Especially the spong though. It's the grodiest. Though I'm not sure why it grosses me out.

Moving on.

In my spree of getting shit done before starting full time work again, I did other shit, too.

Like breaking down all of our food for hiking the John Muir Trail.
Which included moving the contents of giant jars of peanut butter and Nutella into squeeze tubes yay fuck.

All I have to say about packing food for two weeks of backpacking is that it completely blows.

I even tried to cheer myself on through it by getting all super organize-y with the laptop up with my spreadsheet tracker going and putting on fun movies in the background and letting myself eat a few peanut M&Ms, but it still sucked.

All I could think about was how much I was going to hate all of this food soon. And how I'd have to carry it while hating it. And smell it while hating it. And eat it while hating it.

My fervent hope is that I at least come home hating Nutella so that it can't taunt my thighs from the store shelves anymore.


Anyway, yeah - I packed a lot of food up for our trip and I'm shipping half of it to our resupply guy this week and THANK YOU A MILLION TIMES to my amazing, badass, loves-to-put-messy-shit-into-squeeze-tubes sister who showed up just in time to put all the messy shit into squeeze tubes.

I was putting it off because the thought made me want to shit twice and die a thousand fiery deaths.

Can you guess what movie I was watching while I did this? If you can, we are soul mates. If not, blow me.

I did, in fact, manage to get to the bottom of that final to do list and, as my reeeeward, I fucked around in the garden for a while.

Nice reeeeward.

It's something. Not a lot. But something.

Tiny melon

Tiny lemon cucumber

And, not on my written list, but in my mental mind list FOREVER, was a trip to float in Lake Tahoe. Which I SO did even when all things were conspiring against me to just forget about it.

FORGET YOU, life's responsibilities

Instead of blood in my veins, I have the icy cold water of Lake Tahoe. Think about that, why don't you. Also, loving my hat Dig - all my friends in Tahoe want one now, too. So, like, expect orders.

I'm sure you can see why I love it here.

Then I did a bunch of other shit that had just been languishing in the back of my head being all, "You know, just get to me whenever you have a free minute, Mrs. I'm Too Busy For Everything Jerk Bitch."

Seriously, it's rude in there.

Planted my lamb's ear some buddies.

Picked a shit ton of Gravenstein apples.

Went on a death march style hike with the goofball dog who doesn't know how to use a backpack and my beloved Bubba who definitely knows how to use a backpack.

Watched Bubba pump his balls.
This wasn't on my list, but I'm sure you understand why I had to include it anyway. Because of how you guys all understand me, remember? You remember.
Also, I said balls.

Bid a tearful farewell to my hydro cucumber and eggplant crop. Love you, babies! Be good and don't get whitefly!

I hugged all of these hops.

I ate all of these peaches. Thanks, Nan!

Make crockpot plum jam.

Sampled the awesome Belgian that Bubba and I brewed.

Drank a LOT of cocktails while swinging in my recently resurrected Sky Chair.

Planted the long-coveted pineapple guava.
And probably there were other things I did, too, but who cares because that shit's over.

I'm a working woman again.


We'll chat on it.


  1. It's like nesting! Except the job is your baby and there are no weird hormones involved. And you don't have to go through labor at the end. And . . . okay, not at all like nesting, the discussion of which I find inexplicably infuriating so I don't know why I even brought it up. Sorry.

    Hooray for working! I bet you're exhausted after your first full week. New jobs are always that way. I know you'll power through, though.

    1. Oh yeah - exhausted in one way of putting it. Near the point of delusion and collapse is another. Whatever - I'm happy as fuck and it's rad. Powering through until I can...uh...hike for 130 miles through the Sierras. Which will be real relaxing.

  2. There is so much to post on here, I don't know where to start. Let's just say those photos of Tahoe look like a Rothko, and I love them. And OH I want to have succulents planted like that! Gorgeous. Seriously so pretty, Fin. Love it.

    And please tell me that is a sucker in Bubba's mouth and not a cig.

    1. Not a cigarette - it's the plug for the balls. HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!

      I'm real mature.

  3. Can we just talk about how much I equally love and am scared by your back pack food? Some of it I can't identify, so I automatically would not eat it. And I'd probably wrestle you for the M&M's.


[2013 update: You can't comment as an anonymous person anymore. Too many douchebags were leaving bullshit SPAM comments and my inbox was getting flooded, but if you're here to comment in a real way like a real person, go to it.]

Look at you commenting, that's fun.

So, here's the thing with commenting, unless you have an email address associated with your own profile, your comment will still post, but I won't have an email address with which to reply to you personally.

Sucks, right?

Anyway, to remedy this, I usually come back to my posts and post replies in the comment field with you.

But, if you ever want to email me directly to talk about pumpkins or shoes or what it's like to spend a good part of your day Swiffering - shoot me an email to finnyknitsATgmailDOTcom.