Fiorella is angry. She took her little red wagon to the creek and loaded it with several stones just the right size to line the porch-line edge of her raised planting beds, but she hit uneven ground as she was hauling the wagon along the fenceline toward the street and it overturned. Not to be thwarted, Fio put the rocks back in the wagon and started off again--but because she hadn't thought to straighten the wheels, the wagon overturned again. Fio was sweating like a pig, the day was so humid she could hardly take a breath, so she decided that, yes, she could be thwarted, deserted the wagon, and staggered back to the house.
Then there are the cast iron plants which won't stay planted despite Fiorella's herculean efforts. And the bayberries, which have betrayed Fiorella by allowing themselves to be ravaged by whatever eats bayberries, and the sages, which developed a stupid fungus and had to be jerked out by the roots, not to mention the dead bird Fio found stuck to the branch of the volunteer mulberry.
When did Mother Nature become such a bitch?