Moanday: Sep-ARF-ration Anxiety

One of the things people like best about dogs is their loyalty -- in my experience, what others call 'loyalty' is usually an eye to the main chance, but if it makes us feel good we can call it 'loyalty' or 'devotion' or 'Matilda', for that matter.

Most dogs I've known have ever-so-slightly preferred their own human family to any other humans that happened to be around unless food was involved, in which case all bets are off, but I've never had one that actually pined for one particular person...until I owned Archy.  Now I'm starting to worry a bit for his mental health, and a lot for mine.

You see, the Man of the House is away at the moment on a ski trip.  As a New Englander, I refuse to pay for the privilege of being cold because it goes against every belief I hold dear, and so I have remained at home, enjoying the watery English spring with my menagerie.

Sure, I miss the M.o.t.H. when he's not here, but I can certainly cope.  I've even got a system for sleeping alone that I plan to market to the wives of over-the-road truckers and travelling brush-salesmen.  Patent is pending so I can't reveal too much about that but it does involve photo-sonic technology (sleeping with an IPod and all the lights on).

FiFi is the member of our pack who loves the M.o.t.H. the most, so I always expect her to freak when he's away.  However, FiFi is also a raging sociopath and as such feels a far stronger emotional connection to things than people.  If her food dish is full, if pink blanky is clean and positioned correctly in her crate, and if her soft toy, Minty Dog, is available for torturing, the rest of the world could vanish a la the 'Taken' series, and it would take Fi three-to-five days to notice.

The ferrets don't care who comes or goes because they're ferrets.

Archy, however, is another story.  Archy tends to be a mama's dog, so I was completely unprepared for the Medieval level of self-torture and introspection that the little guy would engage in when his dad went away.

Last night I literally only got about three hours of sleep because Archy was keening through the entire night.  I tried putting him in his crate, where he usually sleeps without any fuss.  Big mistake, because I'd just created the world's first interiorly activated drum kit.  He bashed and thrashed out his anguish by kicking on the walls, with an occasional 'washboard' effect provided by runnning his claws against the metal grate on the door.

Then I tried letting him roam, but this was another false step, because instead of hopping into the people-bed as he usually would if given half an opportunity, he stood by the bedroom door and pawed at it, whining all the while, as if that would mystically summon his dad down from the mountain to which he'd so callously disappeared.

I gave him chews and treats, and just looked at me like, 'These are not my dad.'

Finally, my last option was to practice 'holding' therapy, which I believe is rather controversial in its use on human children.  I wrastled him into bed and grabbed him in some kind of sleeper hold, where he whined on and on until he passed out from sheer self-induced stress.  Then he'd wake again after an hour or so, and we'd repeat the process.

Good times.

This morning, I said, 'Archy, it's a beautiful day.  Your dad will be back in less than a week, and contrary to what you seem to think, you didn't do anything to make him leave.  You have to snap out of this funk.  Why don't you get outside and take in some of the beauties of nature, for they will surely grant you some measure of transcendental comfort.'

Hmm, 'a host of golden things-to-pee-on' -- that's Woofsworth, isn't it?

Arch went out for about five minutes and came back with an ineffable look of tender sorrow.

'I don't think I'm very good at transchending,' he sighed.

I thought for a moment and then said, 'Well, FiFi isn't sad at all.  Look at her over there with Minty Dog.  Why don't you go get Monkey and see if a cuddle with him will cheer you up?'

 

Nuffing pershonal, Monkey, but I'm jusht not feeling it today.

'Monkey doeshn't cuddle me back,' said Archy after a brief experiment.  'Not like [trembly voice] my dad.'

'Okay,' I said.  'Then why don't you go see Bongo?  He'll cuddle you back, if he's not too busy bonging around.'

I say, Old Bean, I was trying to snooze.

Archy returned woebegone as ever.  'Bongo would rather shleep than cuddle with me,' he sighed.

I was running out of suggestions, so I decided to do some serious blue-sky thinking.

'FiFi just woke up from a four-hour nap,' I said.  'Why don't you try her?'

'Really?' said Archy, looking a bit petrified.  'Well, maybe...if you shay sho...'

Get this...thing...off me

Archy returned,visibly shaking in terror.  'I don't think it'sh a good idea to cuddle with Fi unlessh she expresshly invites you to,' he informed me.

'Okay,' I said, 'so what about me?  I'll give you a cuddle any time.'

'No thanks, Mum,' said Archy.  'I'll just wait until Dad gets back.'

Someday...

Archy sighed heavily as he went back to his post at the window to watch for the Man of the House's return. 

'I guessh it'sh true what they shay,' he sighed...

 

'There'sh jusht no subshitute for the real thing!' 

Weasel Wednesday: The Stimple Affair

This is just about the best picture I can provide of Stoat Newington when she's awake. She only has two settings: weasel-in-a-coma and Tasmanian-Devil-on-Angel-Dust.


She exudes a level of high-energy health that makes the cast of the High School Musical look like a ward full of anemia patients. She makes Kristen Chenoworth seem dour and repressed. When I watch a Shirley Temple vehicle, I often find myself thinking, 'Yeah, but if that were Newington, there'd really be some sparkle-motion up on that screen.'

So I was quite alarmed last week when I went to pick her up from her cage for a quick cuddle and was presented with this:

Artist's Rendering: Ebola Stoat

Yes, my stoat had apparently contracted the Ebola virus and was bleeding like an overly literal Twilight Fan from one of her eyes. Needless to say, I freaked out.

After stopping the bleeding with some cold water (all the while with Newington protesting, 'Oi'm foine, Oi am. Let's stop all this kerfuffle and 'ave a roight ol' knees-up!"), I called the vet. Boy, was I in luck -- they had an open slot in half an hour and they'd be happy to squeeze me in.

The question of how to get Newington from my house to the vet's now presented itself. My first thought was to carry her in my arms, perhaps with her harness on as an extra precaution.

HA!

Stoat Newington has more wiggles than a shimmy contest at a Katherine Hepburn impersonators' convention. I got about two steps before I realized that this was not going to work.

And so a few short minutes later found me standing on the train with a dog-carrier that apparently contained a live dinosuar.

Don't worry -- we only cloned females

Aside from the worried looks I was getting from passengers who probably felt that if the boxed-up creature could operate a door handle, then a mere zipper would pose no challenge, I was getting a little nervous.

See, I have this irrational yet intense phobia that my vet and his staff think that I'm stalking him. Part of this fear is caused by the fact that I come in a lot -- although, rationally, all that means is that I have five pets and I'm a good owner who is concerned for their health.

The other part of this fear is caused by the fact that my vet looks almost exactly like David Tennant:

Yeah, this guy

I don't have a crush on my vet. I really don't. No, I'm not protesting too much. I genuinely don't get crushes on people I meet 'in real life', partly because I'm married and partly because...it just seems weird somehow.

However, I am very conscious that Da-vet Tennant is someone that people probably do have crushes on, lots of people. And every time I bring an animal in and there turns out to be nothing seriously wrong with it (FiFi is especially guilty of phantom illnesses), I feel like he must be thinking, 'This crazy woman is clearly suffering from Munchhausen-by-Petsy and is desperate for my wiry, yet rugged, bod.'

Then I get embarassed, even though I know I'm projecting.

This is relevant because when I pulled Ebola Stoat out for her examination, this is what Da-vet Tennant saw:

No, really, Dr. Tennant, I swear there was blood everywh -- oh, never mind



So, what was his diagnosis the mysterious ailment that turned my ferret into a dead-ringer for the Outbreak monkey?

A pimple. A stoat pimple. A stimple, if you would.

Since when do weasels get acne? Am I going to have to start buying Murad System for my stoats? When I can't sleep at 3 am, am I going to see I.M. Weasel being celebrity spokesanimal on a ProActiv informercial? Most troubling of all, how do you work Retin-A through all that fur?

On the bright side, Stoat Newington continues to feel awesome (not that she ever felt noticeably bad, even when she was in Carrie-at-the-Prom mode) and the stimple is healing nicely.

Please note: objects in camera lens are larger than they appear

In person, the scab is virtually invisible.

So, until the next time that FiFi decides she has Chronic Fatigue Syndrome -- au revoir, Dr. Tennant.

P.S. I really don't have a crush on you. Seriously. For realz. Gah, the more I say it the less anyone will believe me.  Forget I even mentioned it.



Moanday: An Open Letter to Urchins

Dear Urchins,

I would venture to say that I like you more than anyone else in this neighbourhood likes you, since every building is plastered with 'No Ball Game' signs and the other childless adults often come out of their homes to admonish you for breathing too loudly.

Evidence suggests that I even like you more than your own parents do, given that they allow you to roam the streets unsupervised from the time you are able to walk, give you dog- rather than people-names (Deniro and Princess are both popular choices locally), and dress you for maximum predation potential in tiny plastic high heels and mini-skirts or low-riding jeans and T-shirts with slogans like 'Chicks Dig Me', as your gender dictates.

I don't mind passing the time of day with you, or throwing your ball back, or finding one of your alleged 'parents' for you when you've skinned your knee and are bawling in the street. I don't mind bringing my dogs out for you to pet, and I don't even get annoyed when you follow me into my home uninvited when I come back from the grocery store, although I do try to get you out of there as quickly as possible, because darn it, Urchins, it isn't safe for you to think that you can wander into any random house with impunity. Not everyone is as nice as I am, Urchins. Plus, I have no doubt that if you succeed in your apparent goal of breaking into my ferret cage and one of them bit you, your 'parents' would attempt to sue my pants off.

My husband assures me that the free-range environment is considered best practice for British Urchins, so I do do not contact the UK CPS. Still, I do worry about you and try to encourage not to eat glass, rugby-tackle cars or listen to Justin Beiber.

And, yet, Urchins, despite our hitherto cordial relationship, even I am getting a bit fed up with your urchining. I know that you are very young and very bored and almost entirely feral, but still, dear Urchins, I must believe that even you possess some basic understanding of the concept of time.

Thus, when on Saturday I was trying to get the house ready to show to some prospective buyers and I told you that I could not bring my dogs out to play with you because it was 'not a good time', I expected that you would understand the word 'time' to extend beyond the immediate five-minute-period following your request. Apparently, this was not the case, as evidenced by your returning within said period to repeat your request. And then returning again after ten minutes. And again.

Urchins, I'm sorry, but I'm very busy trying to sell my house at the moment, so that I can move to an Urchin-free zone -- wait a minute. I begin to see daylight. Is that your game, Urchins? Are you attempting to sabotage my attempts to get the hell out of here? It seems I've underestimated how much you enjoy having access to my pets. Well played, Urchins. Well played.

But this isn't over, Urchins. Not by a long shot.


Ms. Mehitabel

Stoat-Gate: An Exclusive Interview

From the start of her long career, FiFi Chi-Terriere has been hounded --or should we say chihuahua'ed? -- with controversy, dating all the way back to the infamous groin-biting incident of 2005. But never has she managed to spark such a media firestorm as with this month's Stoat-Gate incident.

For anyone who's been living under a rock and has somehow missed the intense debate, the scandal arose when, having been pulled over for a DWY [Doing Wild Yapping] in Greenwich Park, Chi-Terriere allegedly let fly with a stream of anti-mustelidic remarks.

After a week in 'Fi-hab' at the $1,000-a-day Fresh Dawns Aromatherapy Spa in LA, the infamous 'pup terrible' agreed to meet at the Ritz for her first interview since our rival publication first broke the story of her alleged hate-barking.

She arrives fully two hours late to the interview, the black circles around her eyes amply testifying to the fact that she hasn't given up her fast-lane lifestyle in spite of the her intensive 'therapy'. Still, she manages to look much younger than her seven years -- not a day over five -- as she sits lapping at her Long Island ice-tea while around us the other patrons finish up their morning coffee.

'Let's get dis ovuh with,' she growls, and so I begin with my questions.


Q: Forgive me if I start with the question that's on everyone's mind at the moment: are you, in fact, an anti-mustelidite?

A: N'yo, n'yot at awl. My remahks was taken kimpletely outta komptecks. Ferrets have a rich and varicose cultureful histawry and I have nuttin but the outermost rispeck for the mustelid community.


Q: [Consulting police transcript] Well, you did call them, 'filthy filthing filth-traps.' It's difficult to see how that could be considered 'respectful' in any context.


A: What ya gotta unnastaynd is dat in many pahts of the woild, filth is considuh'ed a good thing. It's like that owld Irish sayin', for exempul, 'May yer road be paved with filth.'


Q: With all due respect, Fi, I don't think that's really an Irish saying.


A: Okay, so maybe it's an Icelandic saying -- what do I look like, an anthropawlogist? The point is that you can't blame me if the stupid filthing weasels are so culturefully unsensitive that they don't even know when someone's payin' dem a cawmpliment.


Q: Now, that raises another issue: don't they prefer the term 'ferret' to the, um, 'w-word'?


A: Oh my gawd, that is so nawt cool. We're never gonna make progress on intuh-species relations if they keep makin' such a big deal about that woid. They use that woid awl the time -- but somehow when I do it, it's a big deal. Bongo and Gizmo are always like, 'Weasel dis' and 'weasel dat' -- why, just dis morning Newington said that woid to me.


Q: Really? That surprises me. What did she say?


A: She said, 'FiFi, please stop cawlling me a weasel.' See what I mean? Dey use it continuefully!


Q: Well, okay...I guess...But how about when you said, 'If I ever git my paws on one of them motherfilthing weasels, I'll flawss my teeth with their whiskers and use their tail for a fedduh boa'?


A: What about it? Their tails are very, very fedduh-y and sawft. They should be flattuh'ed that I'd want to wea-uh them.


Q: Still, you have to admit it sounds a little...hostile.


A: Hos-ty-ul? Hos-ty-ul? They're the ones that are hos-ty-ul! It's well known that weasels are vicious, nasty, violent aminuls that try to bite everything that isn't nailed down!


Q: Why would nailing something down keep them from biting it?


A: You know what I mean -- everybody knows it. Weasels are stone-cold killuhs from the deepest pit of Hades itself, sent to heeyuh as punishment for a fawllen race, and they shall be swept from the earth by the righteous in the last days!

(Pictured: Stone-Cold Killuhs)

Q: Now, I've got to be honest with you Fi, that sounds a little extreme.

A: What, are you one of them, too?

Q: Uh, no, I think it's pretty obvious from my bipedal stance that I'm a human.

A: Oh, that explains it. See, we dawgs are gifted with more senses than you humans. We can actually smell the evil comin' off weasels. It's kinda like roquefort. Then we can't help it if our instinks kick in.

Q: So you're saying that, as a dog, you have no choice but to be angry with ferrets and therefore we can't hold your mustelidophobia against you?

A: That's correck. Ask any dawg.

Q: Then how do you explain...these? [I hand her a sheaf of photographs]

A: No kommint! This intuhview is ovuh!

Editor's note: Shortly after the above was written, Ms. Chi-Terriere's publicist called to inform us that she had been struggling with rawhide addiction at the time of the interview, which accounted for her seemingly inappropriate attitude toward the mustelid community. As of publication time, she has voluntarily entered the New Beginnings Reiki Therapy and Pedicures to deal with this issue.

Freely Translated...

So, I haven't posted in a veeeerrrrrryyyyy long time. Part of the reason is that I've gotten really busy re-learning Greek (and Latin, but I remember that better, so it's less intensive).

I'm spending a lot of time translating stuff. Translation is hard because, on the one hand (Greeks LOVE the construction 'on the one hand...'!), you want to be as literal as possible to show that you understand the grammar, and on the other hand if you're too literal, you create weird, horrible English.

For example, instead of 'my hat', Greek likes to say 'the hat, the my one', or instead of 'how crazy', it says 'oh, of craziness'. The translator has to walk a middle line between the 'Oh friend, what do you?' and 'Yo homey, wassup?'

Since I tend to go more literal than the rest of the class when I translate, I thought it might be fun to do a loose translation of a passage from Aristophanes' Clouds from my JACTA text. Here ya go.

Strepsaides is an old guy whose son Pheidippides has run up a ton of debts because he's 'hippomanes' (horse-crazy -- yes, I can relate to that).

STREPS: Pheidippides, Pheidippides honey?

PHEID: Wassup, pops?

STREPS: Tell me, sonny-boy, do you love your old dad?

PHEID: Sure, whatever. I love you and (sings) I-ee-I will always love you-oo-ooo.

STREPS: Heh heh, but (sings) will you still love me tomorrow?

PHEID: Yeah, yeah, by Man o' War, I swear I'll love ya tomorrow. And I'll never stop lovin' ya. Sheesh.

STREPS: Fer cryin' out loud, don't swear by a horse, sonny! That's what got us into this mess in the first place. So, just listen and do what I tell you.

PHEID: Okay, whatev's, I'm listening. And I'll do whatever you want, like I always do whatever you want. So, what is it?

STREPS: It's just one teensy thing, sonny, a teensy-weensy thing. See, I've got a plan, and I know just what to do. But are you going to be team player?

PHEID: Yeah, by Seabiscuit, whatever you say. Quit trippin' pops. (puts in the earbuds of his IPod)

STREPS (ripping out earbuds): Are you listening or not? Do you think I'm talking 'cuz I like the sound of my own voice? Fine, then I won't tell you my plan.

PHEID: Okay, okay. I was listening, and I'm listening now, and I'll always be listening. Cripes. (sighs) So, what were you sayin' again?

STREPS: I was saying that I have a plan!

PHEID: But what kind of plan? What have you got in mind, what are you scheming about? Come on and tell me already.

STREPS: Not yet, but I will tell you. Maybe, just maybe, my plan will save us from these huge debts you've run up. It's one hell of a plan!

PHEID: Then just tell me! What's this amazing plan, pops? What do you want me to do? And how's it gonna save us, anyway? How can your plan get us out of debt?

STREPS: So, you'll do it?

PHEID: Yes, for the three-hundredth time, I'll do it, by Smarty Jones!


What is Strepsiades's big idea? Tune in tomorrow...

ShoesDay: Must...Hold In...Catty...Comments...

It's fashion week in London. Today I walked past a real, actual fashion show going on in a disused church, with strobe lights and screaming and everything. Sadly, the logo was too cool and speshul for me to make out the designer's name.

So let's talk clothes. English clothes.

First, I gotta establish my fashionista creds. Today, just as an example of my sartorial elegance, I'm wearing a sweater that is old enough to attend kindergarten and has more pills than the medicine cabinet at Judy Garland's house. In addition, I'm daringly sporting two-sizes-too-big jeans that are more 'fat pants' than 'phat pants'. And to tie it all together, my rubberized riding boots. Hey, it's raining. Whaddaya want from me?

Needless to say, when I walk into a room Sarahca Jessica Parkaca isn't exactly shaking in her Manolos at the prospect of losing her style-icon crown.

But despite not being without my own fashion sin, when I see some English trends, I just can't resist casting the first snark.

Would you yourself like to play along at home and dress up as a 'with-it' London Laydee?

It's easy if you follow the four F's: Flowers, Feathers, Fur, and Fetishwear.

The overall effect to shoot for is that of an elderly dowager with incipient dementia, who is lightly sozzled and all dressed up to bag the village curate at Lady DeWithers' next tea-and-ecstacy party.

If observers are asking themselves, 'Is she homeless or just really, REALLY rich?', then you are doing it right.

So, let's pretend you're getting ready for a big night out.

First, grab the tweed hotpants that you wear to the office in your job as a high-powered securities trader. At work, you pair them with black opaque tights, but this is party night, so go get your electric puce opaque tights.

Do NOT get sheer tights of any colour. In fact, do not OWN sheer tights. They are not okay. You wouldn't want to sleaze up your winter-wear Daisy Dukes with something that revealing, would you? No, of course not. You're way too classy.

So that covers the Fetishwear nicely, but I'm not seeing flowers here! Quick, grab a fake flower brooch. If it's smaller than your head, it's not big enough. Return it to the store and get something bigger.

Now, pin it to your black 'body-conscious' camisole top. Hell no, you don't need a sweater; it's the balmy month of February, fer cryin' out loud.

But is that enough Floral? Naw, not really. Hey, how about some flowers in your hair? Put a couple behind your ear. Hey, it worked in the 1930's. Ooh, the '30's. Wasn't that War fantastic? Didn't we look awesome in our uniforms? Mmm, how about all the delicious spam. Good times!

Snap out of it -- let's get back to the present, 'cause you're showing a severe deficiency in dead bird parts! How about a super-skinny lavender Feather boa? Yes -- perf! -- it'll match your skin tone as you head out into the winter night wearing hotpants and a silk tanktop.

Don't forget a handbag. Here's a trick: if it won't hold the corpse of a yearling fawn, then your bag is probably too small. And if it's tattered and ragged and looks like it might smell of cat pee, you are golden. Remember, you want to keep up your pseudo-homeless mystique. It's so bohemian, just like Sienna Miller or that one bearded guy who sleeps outside the Chinese grocery store just off The Strand.

Lookin' goo-- OMG! Don't forget SHOES!!!!

This year, there are only two types of shoe that you are allowed to wear: Uggs or bright red Dorothy Gale flats. But the rule is quite firm: if you want red, you have to wear those black opaque tights, and you've already picked puce.

Uggs it is, then.

Yeah, it's true that they offer zero arch support, and some grouchy people say that wearing white, Furry boots in a country where it rains daily and mud-season lasts from September to July is a titch impractical, BUT they are the one and only warm thing in your entire wardrobe. So you go, Ugg girl!

Okay, check the mirror: do we look pretty? No? Fantastic!

Do we look whimsical? Yes? Nice one!

But is it mere Bjork-level whimsical or is it full-fledged great-aunt-on-a-bender-getting-dressed-in-the-dark whimsical?

All right! Great work. Let's go.

Man, that curate will never know what hit him.

MoanDay: We Shall Fight Them in the Gardens!

Once again, it's been ages since I updated. It's because I've got this new boyfriend who's been taking up all my free time. His name's Hammer, and...

Well, okay, he's not so much named 'Hammer', as he is a hammer. And he's not so much a 'he', as he is an 'it'. But we've been having so much qualitay time that I think I could be forgiven for a touch of anthropomorphism here.

My annual unfeasible garden makeover is in red-hot medias res, and it consists of me building from scratch and installing new raised beds all around the edge of my tiny yardage. Why? Because I love the pain. Love it. Cannot get enough. Why do you think I own a chihuahua/Jack Russell mix?

Um, but it's also because nothing will grow in our actual soil, y'know the stuff that came with the house. In fairness, 'soil' is probably too generous a term. Mrs. Kincaid's second-grade class could have one hell of an awesome arts-and-crafts hour with the stuff because it is neither more nor less than 100%, solid, elementary-school-grade, suitable-for-building-coil-pots CLAY.

Also, it is a ruthless killer that makes Charlie Manson seem like a laid-back kinda guy that you wouldn't mind having as a sitter for your goldfish while you're in Newark for that management-strategies seminar.

I wouldn't begin to try to list all the living things the CLAY has taken in the nearly-three years we've been here, but as a mere taste let me tell you that we have carefully, lovingly sown grass seed at least six times in those years and then, when that inevitably failed, spent a ton of money and back-pain putting in sod.

Is there any grass out there now, as I'm typing this? I dunno. Do monstrous hell-weeds with roots that reach to Sidney count as grass?

Then there's the honeysuckle. *crosses self* Oh fragrant vine, we hardly knew ye.

The poor little poppies never even stood a chance. 'Cometh up as a flower' is right.

My theory is that raised beds can save my future seedlings because they will be filled with superior, store-bought dirt (it hurts my soul so badly that I'm going to the store and paying for dirt. Next thing you know, people will be charging money for freakin' water.)

And thus, I've been making these raised beds, which my friend the Internet alleges are SO simple that even a child could put one together.

Speaking of which, yesterday, I'm out there sawing and hammering my little heart out when I look up to see six of my neighbour's grandchildren lined up along the low fence that separates our yards just staring at me working. Village of the Damned much, kids?

This is another reason that I need raised beds. I must have the ability to grow some tall flowers or shrubs or really anything would do -- maybe I could grow a big brick wall. Do they have seeds for those?

It's just too creepy to know that you can be out there in the backyard minding your own business, maybe reading some Nabokov or perhaps Anais Nin, drinkin' ye hooch, sunbathin' in defiance of all Surgeon Generals everywhere, thinkin' your grown-up thoughts about sex, violence, tobacco or one of the other major taboos, and then suddenly you look up to meet twelve identical blue eyes, all of them roughly three feet off the ground, all of them disapproving, all of them boring into the depths of your sin-smeared adult soul and going 'Ick!'.

This does not promote relaxation, at least not as I would define the experience.

And so I fight on, although it's beginning to feel like the Big Push will never end. I was so adorably sure that I'd be able to finish off the project this weekend (was I ever really that young and innocent? *sighs*). But no.

Now this piece of lumber is splitting along the grain, now that one hasn't been measured exactly-exactly-EXACTLY to the 1/16 of a cm and consequently this whole bed won't go together, now the man of the house has to go off to the pub for four hours just when I need him to hold this one thing for me while I hammer it into place...You get the idea.

But I shall battle on, unwearied, for the plants and for the kids.* Because that's the kind of garden warrior I am.


*Okay, it's not so much 'for' the kids, as it is 'to get away from the kids', but it is about the kids, so isn't that the same thing in the end? The same spirit? No? Yeah, I guess you're right, it isn't. *hangs head* Behold: I am a TARRYBUL person.