My husband has a new obsession. Yes, Rob has moved beyond pancakes, Television Without Pity, and H.R. Pufnstuf; his new love is a vine he is growing in the back yard. My very own Seymour Krelborn has spent a significant portion of the past month rigging up ropes and impromptu trellises in an attempt to get his precious green friend to grow grow grow. The damned thing has complied, too. Basking in the sunshine of his attention, it extends what seems like a foot per day. From its former corner of the garden, it has climbed a tree and covered the shed, and it’s right on track for taking over the second-floor balcony.

At first, I thought he had at least left the worms behind with the pancakes, but it seems that passion is still alive, too. He has once again taken to grinding up our garbage in the blender and feeding the buggers, and it’s no coincidence that his little friends live right under the beloved vine. It’s vines all day and worms all night in this house.

One day, I could take no more. “Why don’t you MARRY them!” I shrieked. Now he goes out of his way to tell me how handsome I am and how lucky he is to have me, but I know this is just a play for time. Once the vines and worms get big enough, they are going to burst in the bedroom window while I’m sleeping, and the next thing you know, my DNA will be scattered all over the back yard.

I mention all of this so, in case I mysteriously disappear, you will know to dust for leafprints.