As an artist, it used to be that dirty meant dusting myself in resin, lubing in intaglio ink or bathing in turpentine. Things have changed.

Now, as a mother, there *are* days that go by without a single disturbing event but most days are wallowed knee-deep in poo, pee, blood, vomit and snot. I deal with the obligatory moldy dishes I should have washed two days ago and the compost that should have been taken out a few before that, the fruit flies, the maggots and the ants that find the one crumb under the table...okay, make that the LOT of crumbs. People nowadays strive to detach themselves from all that life-is-messy business. Personally, I've never understood this. Life is life, so life is messy, might as well live it.

So I'm dumping my boiling, steaming, slimy pot of cooked grapes into some cheesecloth today, letting it drip and finding it ever so boring. I twist the corners together and keep twisting, twisting until the steaming juice starts to seep from the top, twisting until my fingers burn from it and stained a lovely shade of blue. I want to squeeze out more so I grab my tongs and start compressing the mass and still twisting and I'm smiling suddenly.

This completely mundane task of extracting grape juice for jelly has turned completely macabre.

I love it.

_{P.S. I didn't know whether to put this in Macabre or Humor}