Mrs. Schwartzfarb came over last week, camping out inside my head and rendering me fussy, morbid, and thoroughly displeased with everyone and everything. And because I know that a visit from the 'Farb usually coincides with an unappealing sense of entitlement with a distinct lack of gratitude, it made sense to get outta dodge for a quick head check. I hopped on a train and went to the Little House.
Despite being in an area with the highest doucherocket-to-normal-person ratio of any place on earth, the Little House is kryptonite to the douchbaggery of city folk, rendering them powerless with its little heart shutters and English roses and whitewashed walls. Once I crossed the theshold, Mrs. Schwartzfab piped down.
She was too busy sniffing the salt air.
And making mint tea.
And taking naps.
And dreaming fantastical dreams.
And reading novels under a fanciful French flea market lamp.
And she felt blessedly refreshed.*
*Until she got on the train with all the douchers and got really, really annoyed again.