Shopping Tips and Guidance by Mandy Claire

My good friend Nettle tells me that those who have mugwort growing by their doors are witches. If this is so, Yowsa! I'm a witch!

Mugwort is practically all that is growing in my garden these days. I have to beat it back with a stick. It threatens even my precious bloodroots, dear little Appalachian replants like myself.

This is the interesting part. When I moved to my house, the back yard was not Mugwort Heaven. Mugwort only started appearing in quantities about six years ago -- at the time when I began to question all the answers. So I think Nettle must be right. The bored gods moved in, recognized that I was going to bang a gong for them, and populated my garden with the correct plant.

I only pull it up around the bloodroot. Otherwise, mugwort rules. The leaves are pretty, and it is definitely a plant that doesn't need much sunshine to thrive.

When I get a minute, I want to ask you, my dear readers, about the new ghost in my house. But that will have to wait. There's cat hair on the upholstery, and nothing is more important than returning my chintz to its pristine state.

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," where we have never, ever understood why someone can buy a fifth of whiskey and get into a raging drunk -- legally -- while a peaceful little spliff gets you sent to jail. This, my friends, is injustice.

We at TGAB quickly add that we do not partake of either whiskey or spliffs, feeling one to be evil and the other to be illegal. Enough said.

However, there is a weed growing rampant in my yard that has my curiosity piqued. It's mugwort.

The Druids considered mugwort a magical herb that led to enlightenment. Now the state of Louisiana wants to make it illegal to grow mugwort. Is there something promising in this hardy perennial that has choked out everything else in my garden?

Please, if you have any anecdotal information on the ingestion of mugwort, please share. It's April 20, and I'm going outside to make a fire of a certain pesky perennial ... just on the odd chance that ...

This is New Jersey, after all, not Louisiana.

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored" in the aftermath of the most exhilarating Sweet Sixteen party ever! Spare is exhausted ... and no wonder. Dancing in the grass with her friends while a live band played classic rock was just awesome!

This fabulous party was made possible by my mom.

Wait a minute. My mom is dead. She's been dead since 2001!

Well, you see, my biological mother gave me one gift: life. That's an important gift. After that, living with her was a nightmare that I don't care to re-visit even in a therapist's chair.

One thing you learn, if you have a bad mom and you want a good mom, is -- you go looking for the mom of your dreams. I found mine six years ago. She owns a store called Woodstock Trading Company.

Everyone calls her Mom. She has a thriving business because every customer is made to feel at home (except for pesky shoplifters -- it is a business, after all).

Woodstock Trading Company, and Mom, played a central role in my paradigm change. The minute I walked into Woodstock for the first time, the balance of my being shifted. I left the store that day with my faerie, Princess. From the store have also come my other faeries -- Puck, Aine, and Chance.

It was these faeries who saw to it that I visited the store on the day that Mom and her staff fished a 10-day-old kitten out of the crawlspace beneath the floor. I took the kitten home to foster. He had an infection. I had the antibiotics on hand. He grew and developed nicely, and on Thanksgiving weekend 2008 he went to live in the store. He now weighs 17 pounds and is the happiest cat in Camden County.

Mom's gratitude to me for the life of this kitty has become a bond between us that is more warm and wonderful than anything I ever experienced with my biological mother. She scheduled a band on the lawn for Spare's birthday. She opened her store and her heart to all of Spare's friends.

Mom, please read this. You are my mother. I love you.