After living in L.A. for 8 years in a 1-bedroom apartment (with the nearest plot of land being the LaBrea tarpits), it's shocking to suddenly find oneself using words like "shed" and "pitchfork." As in, "Honey, could you put the pitchfork back in the shed, please?" We may even buy a wheelbarrow. I never thought anyone could actually go out and buy a wheelbarrow anymore. I thought all the wheelbarrows were already out there, rusting away in sheds, next to pitchforks. But no, apparently, they're still available for purchase. And somehow we need one.

It seems we have a variety of critters in the area. Squirrels, naturally. Skunks, evidently, and some miscellaneous unidentified creatures that keep digging holes in everything. Raegan and I have been testing out a theory. Each night when it gets dark enough to avoid the possibility of public embarrassment I pee on, in, and around the critter holes. The theory being that the critter, upon arriving home from a hard day of hole-digging, will get a whiff of my intimidating man-pee and high-tail it on out of there, never to return. I'll let you know how it goes.

Thus far, the squirrels, at least, appear unfazed.