Shurb Nurse.

You want remedies? Try these on for size: Wake up to an unmistakably crisp spring morning, temps bottomed down in the thirties but kicking and dragging and screaming toward fifty, toward sixty, toward more—and in a hurry. Make coffee, pack the Toad in the truck, pack the dog along for good measure, head out bundled up and windows down and into the rising sun, down 70 and toward the Geenabo Shurb Nurse, which is how it appears on my credit card statement each time it comes through. They can't type over at the shrub nursery, but they can grow, semiparadoxically, some trees.

One eight-foot-tall Mt. Fuji flowering cherry, please, and damn near for free.

The dog loves the truck. The Toad loves the truck. These things plus a giant tree laid into the bed and squeezed secure by the spare tire make it hard to care about much else, and let's face it: I'm still not sleeping or doing anything to improve or sustain any of my interpersonal relationships, but it is the weekend. Let us do what we can to let it be the weekend.