I came home from a two-day business trip to Phoenix on Wednesday night to find that Kate and her mom had edged a large flowerbed in the front of the house. This is great news. I love edged flowerbeds because I love mulch. I’m not being ironic in any way, here: I freaking LOVE to mulch stuff, because suddenly your unkempt yard can look like the manicured park outside a dentist’s office. That sounds sarcastic, so let me emphasize: neatly-trimmed, every-blade-in-place lawns and neatly laid mulch speaks to me (and probably all men) at an ancient, primordial level. I’m sure the illusion of control given by landscaping is as old as, well, landscapes: “If I can just rake the gravel outside my cave, I won’t worry so much about getting FREAKING EATEN BY SABERTOOTHED TIGERS.” “There, everything’s nice and neat. Look at the smooth ARRGH IT ATE MY LEG”

Um, anyhow, I’m not sure how crazy I will be allowed to get with the mulch. Besides, there’s plenty of work ahead before the licorice root starts rolling. Right now, the role of the sabertooth tiger is being played by a seemingly innocuous five-foot rhododendron bush, which like all bushes tries to pretend that it won’t be hard to move. Yeah, right; I’m on to its kind, now, and plan to spend twenty minutes every day this week chipping away at its enormous freaking root ball, after which I might just be able to ARRGH IT ATE MY LEG”