For some women, shopping is therapy. For me, not so much.
I've been fighting a monster for ten weeks. He attacks while I'm innocently dreaming about heirloom tomatoes and new cultivars of columbine. In the morning I rush to my garden to repair his destruction: over-turned begonias, pentas, and portulaca with exposed roots and wilting leaves who gasp—the armadillo did it—before they die.