Migrating From Blogger to WordPress While Battling an ICD Attack Was Not My Best Idea

Um, I guess you’ve probably noticed by now that the place looks a little different.

That’s because, in one of the worst cases of impulsiveness I have ever executed, I decided to migrate Katoninetales.com from Blogger to WordPress. I did this because I was having an Impulse Control Disorder panic attack and needed a distraction to ensure that I didn’t do something to hurt myself, and in a spectacular bout of irony ended up causing myself more pain than any of my vices could have done. This is because I don’t know shit about how computers and the interbutz actually work. As far as I know I click a button on my laptop and The Computer Fairy casts a magic spell to turn the computer screen into a window to Interwebz Land. Migrations are never easy but when you don’t know what the fuck you’re doing it’s like being dropped into a foreign country with a map written in Braille. And the Braille is in a different language. And you can’t understand what the natives are saying but you’re pretty sure that they’re making fun of your Fanny pack.

In other words, there are a lot of ways to fuck up a migration I did every single one of them.


I Changed Servers Before Migrating My Site

To be fair to myself I will tell you that I did not expect my former host server to cancel my service as quickly as it did. I had emailed my host for my site’s EPP code (this is apparently the secret spell to unlock your domain registration) and they took it upon themselves to boot me off of their server at the exact moment that they emailed me back with the code. I found this out because my site went down late Friday. SURPRISE! I emailed my new server and asked them when my site would be back up. They of course emailed me back with basically “What site?” It was then that I learned that websites are not magic windows but actual files that need to be copied onto the new server while the old server still supports them “to ensure uninterrupted website service”.

Picard Facepalm Star Trek Fail

I Thought That Free Migration Meant From One Writing Platform To Another ie Blogger to WordPress

Anyone with any shred of computer knowledge is perfectly within their right to be laughing their ass off at me right now. I honestly cannot believe that I was so stupid except that I was so focused moving writing platforms that I had blinders on regarding the bigger picture of the server move. No it turns out that “migration” refers to those precious website files and moving them to the new server. This is important because as soon as you leave a host, they take all of your files and feed them to the troll that lives under the bridge and they are gone forever. And I had not moved my files.
Double Facepalm Star Trek Fail

I Assumed That The Live Chat Help Was More Than a Guy Typing With One Hand While Whacking Off With the Other

I immediately panicked and went to my new host site and clicked on the live help. I explained that I was a moron and realized that I changed servers before migrating my site and to please tell me that I didn’t lose my site forever. He asked my site name and then came back to tell me to submit a support ticket and disconnected me. I let the rudeness roll and sent an email to support apologizing for being a moron and asking how I could fix this. I was pleasantly surprised to get an answer after a few minutes but when I opened the email I saw that it was just to tell me to contact my old company. Fine, that makes sense.

I went to my old server site and tried to log in but it told me that my password didn’t work and that I could blow it. I politely asked to have my password emailed to me and received an email telling me that I could stick my password where the sun don’t shine would have to contact my new server company. What? I had no idea why my new company would have my old company password.

I replied to my new company’s email relaying this and they said that was because they were my server now. Well no fucking shit. I again got on Live Chat where the same guy asked for my ticket number and then told me to email customer support. I asked him if he couldn’t look at my ticket himself since he asked for the number and he replied, “No I can not.” and then disconnected me again.
Triple Facepalm Star Trek Fail
I immediately signed back on and as soon as he answered I replied that “can not is spelled cannot unless the not is part of another construction” and then I disconnected him. And let me just say here that I understand that computer people must want to pull their hair out when it comes to deal with computer-illiterate morons like me all day but this asshole didn’t even give me a chance before he hung up on me.

As a last ditch effort I emailed Google support since they overwrite Blogger and was told that I had to email the server company (my old company). So basically we were all playing Play The Kat.

Finally I did what I always do and fixed the problem my fucking self. It meant staying up for 24 hours straight on the computer to teach myself Internet protocol suite and then moving my site files–which I actually had backed up because I’m a fucking rockstar though they were not in the correct format to upload directly to a server.

So all of that bullshit said, my new site is up. Just please excuse my site’s temporary appearance because not only do I have to work my other job, but my brain’s server is fried.

Game of Exterminators: A Song of Puns and Ants

Last week I discovered that a colony of ants had decided to squat in my bedroom window. These ants are not the cute l’il teeny ones that are guilty of not much more than ruining your picnic either; these are giant motherfucking evil looking creatures that freak me the fuck out. Seriously. I am not a squeamish person but there is just something about these ants that send me into berzerker frenzy.

rage i hate ants

The last time that these fuckers had ventured into my room was in May and I thought that I had killed the colony since I had sprayed so much ant spray into the woodwork around the window that I nearly killed myself but then as I was working in my room last week I started to hear some sort of odd crackling near my window.

(Actually I think one of the things that sets me stupid about these ants is that I can hear them under the wood.)

I looked over in dread and sure enough there was an ant shaking his ass at me–who was soon joined by more ants who grabbed their crotches and flipped me the bird. I freaked out again and went on a spray frenzy but I had unfortunately used the majority of the spray in my last rage, and while I killed the ants that were doing the Harlem Shake on my sill, I didn’t feel safe from seeing an encore performance later.

I originally wanted to burn the house down but my mother convinced that an exterminator would work just as well. Since I have deadlines and am still covering at my “part time” job she took over finding an exterminator and setting up an appointment.

I came home on Saturday and was told that the exterminator had come and sprayed while I was at my other job.

“They’re Carpenter Ants,” my mother told me.

I nodded. “I could tell by the way they were singing Superstar at all hours.”**

“And it was a pain in the ass to find an exterminator. You would think that they would be under ‘E’ for ‘exterminator’ but they’re not.” (My mother still uses a phone book.)
“They’re under ‘P’ for ‘pest control’,” she clarified.

“I see. And what was the name of the company?”

“Able Pest Control.”

“Oh. I was hoping that they were named Lannister,” I replied.

“What? Why?” my mother asked.

“Because a Lannister always sprays for pests!” I howled with laughter at my own wittiness.

My brother happened to overhear this conversation and told me that I should beat myself for such a terrible pun.
a lannister always, game of thrones, tyrion

And that was the highlight of my weekend.
(I’m not even being facetious, that amused me for several hours.)

It’s a Boy

I only had a few minutes at the computer–time that I could have spent on my manuscript–but instead I was Facebook, a place that I don’t even like and avoid except when my mother needs me to help her with Farmville missions. I wasn’t friends with the person at whose profile I was staring, however I could send them a message. I continued to stare as the clocked ticked down to you-have-to-get-the-fuck-out-of-here o’clock and finally pressed the damn button and sent my message.

“Hi, my friend send me a text that you are trying to find a home for your dog?”

Thus our story begins.

The woman was indeed looking for a home for her American Eskimo boy and while I had always wanted to adopt another dog, I wasn’t sure how Kira the Diva would handle it. She’s good with puppies, but it’s touch and go with adult dogs. The Eskie boy who needed a home was six years old so I was somewhat relieved when the woman messaged me a few days later that it looked like a friend of hers was going to take him.

About a week later, she messaged me again saying that she hadn’t been able to get a hold of the guy and that if I was still willing to give the boy a home that she would really appreciate it. She was giving the guy until Friday to get back to her and would message me if he didn’t. Part of me was hoping that the guy would message her, but the other, bigger part was already worried about how good of a parent this guy would be if he was already this blase about the adoption.

american eskimo dog

First pic! On our way home.

To make a long story, that Sunday I became a fur-mommy again.

His name was Snowy and while I wasn’t crazy about that name, I thought that we could call him “Jon-Snowy” because that’s the kind of “Game of Thrones” nerd I am. Instead we ended up calling him Seamus, short for “The Wee Eskie Seamus” because that’s the kind of Archer nerd I am.

The first thing I noticed when we picked up Seamus was that he was missing a large patch of fur on his back near his tail. His original parent told me that he lost it because of the change of season, but I recognize the effects of fleas and knew that this was more likely the case–particularly when I rubbed him and felt the bumps and scabs back there. Sure enough I actually saw the little fuckers crawling on him during the drive home. Even though I didn’t want to traumatize him more than he already was at being taken by two strangers from his home of six years, my mother and I knew that we had to stop and give him a bath and start him on flea treatment. We stopped at the pet supply store (that has these spa-like bath that I’m half tempted to jump in) and began washing him. As his fur became wet we saw just how scabbed and red he was not only on the entire lower half of his back but also parts of his belly and his man-junk. (It was seriously horrible and I’ll spare you the pictures.) The good news is that, while he trembled and whimpered a bit as we washed him, as soon as he was toweled off (and in a collar since they had only had a leash on him that acted like a choker), he hopped around with excitement and then rolled over for a belly rub. I think he knew that we were trying to help him.

I’m trying to keep this as short as possible and failing miserably so I’ll just let ya’all know that all of the feverent prayers that I had been saying that Kira and Seamus would get along were answered. It’s seriously a fucking miracle because I have never seen Kira so friendly a strange dog–particuarly when that dog is invading her house. I think she sensed that Seamus needed us.

It’ll be two week on Sunday that we’ve had him and he is such a sweet dog. He is a total belly rub fiend but gives lots of kisses as thanks. Also his back and man-junk are nearly completely healed and his fur is already starting to grow back where he had pulled it out. It’s been an adventure already so yes, prepare yourself for even more dog anecdeotes because, as with everyone in my family, he’s kinda mental.

american eskimo dog

He lays with his legs out behind him. It’s weird and adorable.

Oh Hello March, You Fucking Douche Nozzle

beware the ides of march, ides of marchHappy Ides of March!

In honor of this holiday, and to explain why I’ve been MIA for over two weeks, I present a fictional tale of me and Julius Caesar, another person who has cause to think that March sucks.


(I’m doing this because, for one, it amuses me to have arguments in my brain with dead people, and two, because making it somewhat funny helps me deal.)

((For those of you who don’t fancy a story but still want to know where the hell I’ve been you can CUT TO THE CHASE.))


As I sat down at my computer, the ghostly visage of man wearing a torn and blood splattered toga appeared before me. It was Julius Caesar.

“What the fuck do you want?” I snarled at him.

“You speak with barbed tongue toward one who merely appears to share lamentations about this cursed month,” he replied looking hurt.

“Look Caesar, we went through this last year. March is much more of a shitty month for me than for you,” I replied.

“I would see us revisit this argument and draw new conclusion,” he said in that snotty tone of his. “Our last meeting saw your quarters recently abandoned in favor of more familiar surroundings.”

“Yes, I moved from my apartment during which I nearly cracked my head open on a coffee table and then spent the next month trying to unearth my shit from the mountains of boxes scattered around the house. I still haven’t found my K-Y Jellies from Around the World collection,” I glared. “And I had to hunt through those boxes with a broken hand.”

et tu brute, ides of march“Ah yes a broken hand. Such an injury is surely more grievous than say being stabbed twenty-three times,” he clutched his hand to his chest where deep gashes could be seen weeping bloody tears through the shredded toga.

“Oh please! Not only did I break my hand but I had to deal with an awful doctor.”

“And I was afforded no physician!” Caesar countered.

“That’s the best thing that couldn’t happened to you! Apparently doctors turn to into complete idiot-moron-assholes in March and even if you had made it to a doctor you would have died anyway!”

Caesar sighed and pulled out a chair. “As you wish. But these events are stale and I would brooch argument with events of more recent days. Favor me with details of the slights seen in this March.”

“Okay, let me just break it down for you, Emperor-boy.” I gave a humorless laugh, “On Tuesday of the first week of March I received a letter stating that I owed the government for money in back taxes.”

He nodded, “Alas one must render onto Caesar what is Cae-”
“Shut up,” I snapped. “I didn’t owe ‘Caesar’ shit. My ex-husband received a large sum of money and filed it with my social security number.”

“A misfortune, yet one surely corrected by merely presenting evidence of such duplicity.”

“Oh surely,” I said in my most sarcastic tone, “because it is so easy to have something corrected within the government–especially when my anal fissure of an ex used his own birth date and fucked up mine in their records.”

“Perhaps if you spoke to them more gently,” Caesar tilted his head in reproach.

“You mean that maybe I shouldn’t have told them that their words fall from mouth like shit from ass?” I snarled.

Caesar look startled and opened his mouth to reply.

“I did not say that,” I interrupted him, “but I could have. But let me continue because that was hardly the worst thing that happened last week. I had mentioned that my dog was having surgery, remember?”

“I recall such an entry,” he nodded.

“She had the surgery on Thursday which should have been a simple teeth extraction and scaling, but this is of course my life and nothing is simple.
“I dropped Kira off at the vet’s surgical center at 8:30 in the morning and was told that the office would call me after lunch to let me know that she was ready to be picked up. As it happened I did not hear from the vet until after 2pm and it was to tell me that Kira’s heart rate had dropped near the end of the surgery so they took her off the anesthesia and gave her oxygen. That was several hours ago however and her heart rate was still low and her blood pressure was dropping. The vet had given her medication to counter the anesthesia but Kira still wasn’t waking up.

“I called my mother to meet me at the surgical center and then left to go there with my cousin. My aunt ended up driving my mother and she arrived at the vet’s office a few minutes behind us. The vet tech took us into an exam room and finally brought my Kira to me. She was completely limp and felt cold even through the blanket that they had wrapped her in. I tried talking to her, saying all of the words like “cat” and “walk” that would usually make her perk up but did not get any response.  The vet came back to listen to her heart a few times as I held her and reported that her heart was starting to drop again. She had that she may have an underlying heart condition that was causing her to struggle. She went out and then came back to tell me that she had called the emergency animal hospital and that they were waiting to see Kira immediately.

“We ran out the vet’s door at which point my own heart issues kicked in and I started to collapse both from dizziness and from threatening hysteria. My mother grabbed Kira from my arms and we stumbled to the car where my aunt was waiting to drive us to the hospital. I kept talking to Kira as we drove but she was not responding. I placed my hand on her chest and felt her heart beating slower and slower until I finally let out a strangled cry that I was losing her. My mother grabbed Kira from my arms, shook her and screamed her name. Miraculously Kira’s eyes opened slightly but then she went back under.

“We were nearly to the hospital when my aunt took a wrong turn and had to go into a jughandle that would have put us on the opposite side of the highway from the hospital. (Fuck you, New Jersey and your fucking roads.) The hospital was in sight so my mother and I jumped out of the car and ran down the block to the hospital. We burst into the hospital where the receptionist immediately called a nurse who appeared almost instantly and took Kira from us into the back room. What followed where thirty of the longest minutes of my life.

“We were finally told that we could go into an empty room and that the vet would be in to see us. As I went into the room and sat in the chair all I could think of was that this was how it happened with my dad. He arrived at an emergency room and then we were shoved into a back room where a doctor came in to tell us that he was gone. I sat in a stupor waiting to hear the same thing about my Kira.

“The vet finally came into the room and told us that they had done an EKG on Kira and there was nothing wrong with her heart. They gave her different medications to counter the previous ones and she had finally woke up. They needed to keep her overnight in case she went back under but if all went well then they expected to send her home the next day. My mother began to cry in relief but I was still in too much shock. And besides that the vet was already showing me a printout of what the bill would possibly be.

“I signed the voucher and went out to pay the receptionist. As I was signed the credit card slip, I happened to see a white ball of fluff toddle past the opposite door.”

kira, bandage

She had stretched out her paw to touch me as she slept.

“‘That’s my dog!'” I shrieked. ‘Can I see her?'”

“The receptionist called into the surgery area and then told me that I could wait in the back room again and they would let me see Kira.”

“The door to the surgery area finally opened and a very unsteady Kira walked into the room. She lifted her head slightly, looked at me, and then her tail have a few weak wags and she wobbled to me. I dropped to the ground to hold her and sobbed my fucking face off. I thought that I would never see Kira wag her tail at me again. We were all crying and rubbing her and my poor drugged pup finally drooped down and started to doze off. As much as I didn’t want to leave her I knew she needed her rest, and I also wanted to make sure that the vet was watching in case Kira went into more than just a nap, so I let the nurse carry her back to her crate.”

“The vet called me later that night to assure me that while Kira had some bloody diarrhea and regurgitation, she was still doing well. Needless to say, I did not sleep, but it wasn’t until the morning that I realized that it was snowing. Even more than before I wanted Kira home so that she could see it.

“Finally at 9:30am the vet called and said that I could come get her. I was out the door by 9:33.

“It was still snowing so I had to force myself to drive slowly, but then I ran into the hospital office. To their credit, they did not make me wait, but took me right into an exam room and went over Kira’s discharge instructions. To my wry amusement I noticed a “WILL BITE” sticker on Kira’s chart.

“A few minutes later, a less groggy but more indignant Kira walked into the exam room. She again wagged her tail and came immediately to me and even gave kisses but as she did she cast pissed off looks at the vet and nurse and hid behind me.

“I had already taken care of the balance of her bill so I gathered Kira in my arms, picked up her bag of medications and walked out the door.

“Kira tucked her head under my chin but as soon as we stepped outside she lifted her head and sniffed at the falling snow. Her tail gave a few wags when the flakes landed on her nose and then she tucked her head again and we finally went home.”

Caesar stared at me.

“And that was just the beginning of her recovery,” I added.

Finally he reclined his head. “I proclaim you again victor in the battle of who has more cause to be wary of March.” He stood up. “We shall revisit this argument upon a day.”

“And I hope that you shall be the victor, Caesar. These are laurels that I could really do without.”


My ex received money and filed it under my social security number and didn’t pay the taxes.

My dog had fourteen teeth removed and nearly died from an overdose of anesthesia and pain medication during the surgery.

I was so sleep deprived that I fell down the stairs and mashed my scapula. (Luckily I didn’t break anything but my back looks like I was beat.)


The good news of course is that, after a hellish week of groaning in her sleep and an upset stomach, Kira is finally recovering. I cannot say thank you enough to all of the people that we had saying prayers, sending positive thoughts and healing vibes to her. As I was sitting in the vet’s office, not knowing if Kira was going to make it, I can’t tell you what a comfort it was when my phone buzzed with another tweet or message saying that someone was pulling for Kira.

I’m a blessed bitch.

New Drivers and Old Drivers: The Reason We Can’t Have Cannons On Our Cars

I know that no one thinks that they are a bad driver, in fact, not only will no one cop to being a a bad driver but we are all convinced that we are brilliant drivers and everyone else on the road is a fucking moron. There are however two kinds of drivers on which we can all agree suck: student drivers and old drivers. You see, I take this two lane back road for much of the way to my job-that-gets-me-out-of-the-house-so-that-I-don’t-become-a-recluse and it is a veritable magnet for both of these drivers thanks to the high school where several driving schools meet, and the garden shop which draws older ladies like wrinkled bees that are both located on this road. It would be easy to just rant about both of these types of drivers, but since I am the spirit of altruism I’ve come up with solutions to both of these problem drivers that doesn’t involve lead balls and gunpowder.

New Drivers

dogs driving car

My DOG is a better driver!

Whenever I turn the corner onto that back road and see a “Student Driver” sign sticking out from the roof of a car like an obnoxious cowlick, two thoughts pop into my head. The first thought is that I kinda want to do everything I can to harass the nervous student by revving up to the tail of the their car, tail-gaiting, blowing my horn, hanging out the window and swerving.

(Don’t get all sanctimonious on me, like you’ve never thought about traumatizing a student driver.)

The second thought I have is that these student drivers are some lucky assholes! They can drive like some kind of maniac and it’s cool because “they’re learning”. It then occurred to me that I need one of these student driver signs. If I had a bright yellow sign that said “Kat’s Driving School” I could turn at illegal red lights, drive down the wrong direction on one-way streets and speed like a motherfucker, and no cops would stop me because, hey, I’m just learning officer and I promise to better next time. I’m not greedy either, so I’m even willing to take new students into my driving “school” and hook them up with a sign granted that they pass my own personal driving test. I could go over what that test entails but that’s another post entirely. Suffice to say that if you drive the way that I drive (brilliantly of course) then I’ll help you to break the road laws.

Old Drivers

old lady drivingOh Lord have mercy, where do I begin with these people. Between them leaving their turn signals blinking for ten miles and refusing to pull into traffic unless the car coming down the road is still more than five miles away, I want to bang my head on the steering wheel every time I see a car that appears to be driving itself because I know it’s being operated by a wizened old lady who is sitting on a stack of telephone books to see over the dash. Their worst sin of course is that they drive so fucking slow. I’ll admit that my impatient nature coupled with a hatred of driving in general turned me into a bit of a speed demon in my younger years, however a few speeding tickets cured me of that and I’ve try to stay below ten miles over the speed limit as an adult.*

(*The exception was when I wondered if the 120 MPH mark on my dad’s car’s speedometer was just for show or if the car could really go that fast.**)

(**FYI, the answer is that it can.)

I don’t think it’s too much to ask that a driver does the speed limit, but I’ve found that seniors like to drive at approximately half of the limit. The solution to this problem is in the senior’s car. I think that after a person turns sixty that they should only be allowed to drive cars that are shaped like a wedge with the low side face the back. This way when a senior is poking along, pulling a Gandolf and insisting that “you shall not pass!”, you can rev your car right up the back of theirs and Dukes of Hazard over that shit. They get to poke along the road and the rest of us get to make to our fucking job on time.

This concludes this latest edition of my helpful posts, and as always:

youre welcome, you are welcome

That Poor Meat-Peddling Bastard & The Evil Kat

Once again I am forced to wonder if I am the universe’s favorite plaything or whatnot.

What are the odds that when you are down in the depths of despair*, working too many hours, battling atrial tachycardia, and exhausted yet unable to sleep through the night, that you come home from work and manage to fall asleep on the couch only to be awoken by a meat delivery service trying to hawk their meat subscription service on you?

Apparently in my case, the chances are pretty fucking good.

Last week I was dozing in living room when I was roused by the doorbell ringing and the explosive barking of my dogs expressing their indignation that someone touched their doorbell. I slept-walked to the front window where I could see who was on the porch without them seeing me. I did not recognize the young man and for some reason–I’ll blame my sleep deprived brain–I decided to answer the door anyway. This is very unusual for me because I don’t open the door to strangers, not because I’m scared that they’ll kill me but because I’m scared that they will bore me.

I opened the door and the dude took a few steps back as he was greeted by two dogs snarling with all of the fury they could muster from their fifteen pound frames.

“Can I help you?” I asked him.

meat team ad“Uh yeah, I’m from CM Meats (← not their real name) and we offer a discounted meat delivery service,” he told me adjusting his hat.

I blinked at him in confusion thinking that I must be hallucinating from lack of sleep. “You’re… selling meat?”

“Yeah, you like saving money, right?” he asked revving up for his salesman spiel.

“On meat?” I was still in disbelief. You would think that with the shit that I’ve experienced that a random guy selling meat wouldn’t be that much of a mind fuck to me and yet it was.

“Yeah, we sell a wide variety of steak, seafood, chicken and pork,” he recited.

And then the evil part of my brain woke up.

“How’s your sausage?” I asked him in a low voice.

“It’s great!” he said overflowing with enthusiasm at my apparent interest. “But we only sell it as part of our pork variety case so there’s a lot of meat in there.”

“I’m sure that I could handle any amount of meat that you were interested in…unloading,” I smiled.

“The case has got pork chops, spare ribs, loin steaks and sweet Italian and sage sausage,” he continued.

“I’ve had Italian sausage, but never sage sausage,” I replied. “Though I would prefer to try it before I buy it.”

He scratched his head. “Oh sorry, we don’t have any samples.”

“That’s okay, I’ll just have to take you at your word that your sausage is as amazing as you say.”

He whipped out his clipboard and clicked his pen to begin writing. “So are you interested in any beef or chicken?”

“No, I’m a vegetarian,” I told him.

His face clouded with confusion. “But the… It’s a meat variety case. Like pork chops.”

“I’ll confess that I have no interest in chops, but if I need to buy them to get your sausage then I’ll do it,” I said. “So will you be able to give me that delivery now?”

“I…have to put in the order,” he said still looking uncertain.

The guy was obviously pretty dense and I was running out of innuendos so I crossed my arms and screwed my face into a look of annoyance. “Don’t be a sausage tease. You come to my house hawking your sausage and now you won’t give it to me? Let me be clear, I want your sausage and I want it now!”

His jaw hung open in response and he just stared at me for a moment probably taking in my knotty hair that had escaped from its hair band, the dark circles under my eyes from no sleep and my pale, anemic face.

The guy’s eyes darted around looking for an escape from the nutty nympho and he began backing away. “Sss… sorry to bother you, ma’am,” he said then turned on his heel and bolted for the safety of his truck.

I gave a very theatrical shrug and then closed the door.

I’d like to add a side note that door to door salespeople on my street are ridiculous and relentless. They do not take no for an answer and will visit your door every single day until they wear you down. Considering this and the fact that I was unable to fall back to sleep after the interruption, I feel no guilt WHATSOEVER at traumatizing the dude responsible for ruining my precious nap.

*Okay maybe it’s not that bad, but fellow “Anne of Green Gables” will appreciate the reference.