"I need hay," I told FarmWife.
"You have hay," she told me. "You have half a bale of delicious orchard grass. It will last you a week."
"I need buffer hay," I told her. "I need hay stored against the possibility of a calamity."
"We cannot afford buffer hay," she told me. "FarmHusband's work has been patchy, and we cannot buy hay in any fashion but one bale at a time."
"We need a Paypal button. I will earn my own money."
"You cannot simply ask people for money, Fenway. You need to provide a service."
"I asked for harness money, and look what that got us! It got you the nicest birthday present you've ever had. I got it myself, by asking for money."
"You did that once, Fenway, but twice would be tacky."
"It isn't tacky when you get paid to write a magazine article."
"It isn't tacky when you sell a copy of your book."
"It isn't tacky when you accept payment for a poem."
"It won't be tacky, then, for me to suggest that people might throw something in the tip jar at Brays Of Our Lives."
"You can't make them feel obligated."
"They are not obligated. I blog because I love to blog—you transcribe for me because you love me, and they read because they love me too."
"Just so we're clear—no one has to chip in to your "Feed Fenway" fund. I will feed you—always. You will not go hungry."
"But if they do chip in, FarmWife, don't tell me you won't be grateful."
"I will be grateful."
"Okay, Fen. You may have a Paypal button."