It also means my husband sleeps on the couch from October to March because I can't pry him away from that damn fire. Forget that we have a fireplace in the master too. I am seriously considering moving the couch up to the bedroom. At this rate, our parents will never get the grandchildren that they so desperately want.
To keep with my theme of trying to be a good little farm wife, I went to "help" my husband cut firewood the other day.
I am a horrible wife, but I just love the expressions on his face when he struggles with something. Rather than offer to help, I offer to take a picture.
Nice job honey. Keep up the good work.
Again, rather than offer to help, I have pictures to take. Like the thousand pictures I took until I mastered the perfect angel that made my legs look long and skinny. Not to mention it shrinks my big ol' canoe feet.
Still trying to develop a hip shrinking technique.
Alright, I'm satisfied with this one. We can move on now.
I can't say I had ever seen a wood splitter in action before.
And good thing I didn't flinch. Because thanks to Poor Prior Planning (P to the third, my dorky husband calls it), he ran out of fuel after two logs.
Time to do it by hand.
Oh Lord, watch out, he looks a little crazy. Kinda like he's trying to get a running start at this one.
Okay, so I helped a little. In a very OCD manner, I stacked the wood on the truck. Big logs on the left, medium pieces in the middle and kindling on the right. When you have a pyro for a husband you learn about the importance of things like kindling.
And God forbid should I make the mistake of throwing away a newspaper. That stuff is like gold to him this time of year.
Just another night at home.
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