R Man and I, being the hearty pioneer types we are, had our firewood delivered to prepare for the coming harsh chills of San Francisco. Actually, in SF, a cozy fire feels pretty damn good just about anytime. In fact we were griping in July about having run out of combustibles and were beginning to consider chopping up the little black game table cause, you know, we don’t really use it that much.
So Mr. Cutt (which has to be the greatest name for a firewood purveyor ever, sort of like the nom de smut good pornstars come up with) rolled in with our cord and we stacked and stacked. I want it understood, I am a lady, and avoiding manual labor is a guiding principle in my life, but I turned to like a good sport and now we’re ready for the fog and gales of January. Or August, for that matter.
Here’s the proof: