Having writ

We signed a lease on a house yesterday.

In that lease were the standard demands. Thou shalt pay thine rent on time. Thou shalt not trash the joint. Thou shalt pipe down.

Thou shalt till my fields in exchange for a lower price.

Creativity plus destitution equals contemporary rural new england sharecropping. Greg told our landlord he wasn't afraid of a little hard work, I told him I had an unhealthy obsession with vegetables. He licked his chops. And here we go.

Our current home, a dumpy duplex, is the sort of place I'd be pumped to live in, in college. A roll-y dishwasher? Low-ply carpeting? Easy-care linoleum? A lock on the guest bedroom? Heaven?? But as an adult, having experienced the joys of homeownership and hardwoord floors, this ain't cutting it. Plus, they painted part of the kitchen gold. And there are no closets. Get me the hell out of here.

The Moving Finger, the name of our new home (I'll get into that later), may also have a roll-y dishwasher, plus a potential and likely rodent problem, plus the preponderance of handles and steadies only found in the former digs of an impressively-aged senior, plus a pink bathroom sink, but it is leaps and kitchen counters ahead of this hole.

We move in a month. Farm work begins shortly thereafter: planting, transplanting and other such farm labors.

For context, I grew up in suburban Chicago. I wear eye makeup. We have fine china.

I own a Fendi bag.

(Granted the latter was a gift from a generous friend, but I move to sustain the juxtaposition)

I just gave the dogs a bath, which entitled me to a break in our day of cleaning, so I start this with beer in hand and Madlib on the stereo, daydreaming about what joys and hassles await us in three short weeks.

The Moving Freaking Finger, people.