On Sunday, Mr. Philately and I decided to tame the wild outdoors. We settled for beating back some bushes and mowing the lawn before we could be drummed out of suburbia. Mr. Philately did most of the work but I did the worst job. I whacked away at the pricker bush. I thought I had won until this evening. Then I realized that I had a pricker in my pointer finger. Despite my work gloves, the darn pricker bush had fought back. So here I sit, trying to type with a mauled finger and a band-aid.

I hate that pricker bush. Mr. Philately says he loathes it more than I do but I�m not sure he can. After thirteen years of living here, it�s time to get rid of the thing but we�d best check our insurance policy first. Considering how well it fights back when we try to trim it, I�m afraid of what it might do to a guy who tries to remove it.

Every time I do battle with that bush, I wonder about the people who planted it. Why would anyone plant a pricker bush right where a driver must get out of the car? Were they trying to keep away guests or torture a spouse�or did someone just hire the wrong landscaper and refuse to admit the mistake? I seriously doubt it was planted for its beauty. It has none.

Normally, we do not believe in getting rid of things just because they are prickly. After all, Mr. Philately and I are still together after more than sixteen years of marriage. Still, there comes a time when one simply cannot take any more.

So, I�m putting it on my to-do list: find guy to remove pricker bush. At the rate I�ve been moving on that list, I�ll get to it by our silver wedding anniversary. Or maybe sooner because, after fighting with it, I�m bushed.

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