This was inevitable. Even a decade ago, my Albino Ex used to gripe about how unsociable I was, not inclined to play with the other children, not a traveler, happy in my little Baba Yaga house full of cats and crystals and dusty tomes.
“I really don’t like most people very much,” I would remind him. “They come to me when they need something fixed, and the rest of the time I am fairly happy to be left alone. I’m just the witch at the edge of the village.”
It keeps piling up. I have my snake totem in the garden; I have my bats. Today, a botanically inclined client informed me, after a bit of research, that the funky smelling vines which have periodically erupted through my azalea bushes are Bittersweet Nightshade, a plant which is “toxic in all parts” or a herbal remedy for skin allergies and herpetic infections, depending on whose references you use.
I don’t plan on rubbing it on a cold sore anytime soon, and I figure digging out the rhizomes under the azaleas would be a mitzvah, but I can’t bring myself to dislike it completely. If only it didn’t smell quite so much like rancid Vaseline.