They would buy from ironmongers--mongers sell, broker, or otherwise deal in.

I have food sensitivities--not allergies. I know what they are. I know how much and how often I can cheat on any of them--wheat, occasionally. Peppers, never. Potatoes--if you call a single bite of garlic mashed or five or six fries *per year* "cheating." I have my one perfect 'mater sammich every summer. And every time I cheat I accept the inevitable consequences. It's a decision. If I can't pick off what I'm sensitive to, I'll tap dance with what's available, and I usually bring or konw how to access something I can eat. I don't put that responsibility on other people.

Plei brought me to tears because she made me rice flour pancakes specially for brunch at her house. I really don't expect that level of accommodation as a rule. And I certainly don't expect restaurant servers to take responsibility for my dietary restrictions. If I can't order what I can eat off the menu, I'll wait and eat later.

"a person who sells goods, especially fruit and vegetables, from a handcart in the street."

It's archaic--okay, it's "medieval," and occasionally science fiction--but I've seen slavemongers, shipmongers, lots of mongers who deal in goods other than food.

Oh, poor Jack. All good thoughts to the doggie and his humans.

Ginger, you always have all my good thoughts. Like love, they expand with need.

A column about monger [link]

Thank you, Bev. Pain makes me cranky, and it's been a cranky week.

Oh, good column, Ginger. Always good to know actual facts.

And painfree hugs for you.

Oh, for fuck's sake. I came home to a notice on my door that, surprise! They're going to replace the windows in my apartment on Monday and Tuesday! This means that I have to rearrange my entire apartment before I leave to move everything out of the way.

Also they claim they're replacing the front door, which means my keys won't work. And I don't know if I'll be able to get to the leasing office before it closes when I get back from my trip.

Well, that's a surprise. WTF, landlords of shrift? Pretty damn inconvenient, and seems like a weird thing to do right after someone moves in.

Interesting, Ginger. I had never made that disreputability connection.

My ironmonger question is really whether it's a matter of selling raw iron or finished goods, or either. Though I'm guessing blacksmith, being a skilled trade, would have more cachet than ironmonger anyway, so even if you could describe yourself as both, why would you?

I wonder if I will be able to retain that coster implies fruits and vegetables. Would be nice if I could. That might be a handy word to have hanging around the old brainpan.

I just spent an hour on the phone with AT&T complaining about something that should have happened yesterday and didn't, because that is what I needed to do.

I have finished the dog and cat stuff, at least.

I knew it was coming, but they never actually communicated any dates until today. I'm really looking forward to having the windows replaced because that means my apartment won't get so hot, but they couldn't have timed things worse for me.

Plus I was told they already replaced the front door, so I'm hoping that I won't need new keys after all.

Kitchen is rearranged, mostly, and so is the bedroom. The living room, however, is going to be a pain.

Actually, no. I take that back. They could have waited until AFTER I'd left on vacation to leave a note on my door. That would have been much worse.

I'm going to eat dinner and watch @Midnight before tackling anything else.

Oh, ugh, shrift. Can the localistas who live in the neighborhood do anything to help?

Costermonger has just popped into my head. Is that a thing?

I was just going to post THAT VERY WORD, but -t saved me the trouble. I adore you so!

ION, so so tired. Day job is chaos, I am now apparently at least the interim assistant to the new chief, which does not entail any change in title or pay but does entail a terrifying lot of new work (and a whole lot of discomfort with the assistant to the former chief, and worry about her, and utter inability to navigate any of the mess), and for the last two weeks there've been at least a dozen new emails in my inbox every ten minutes, every day. I come home from work and curl in a corner and Hec plys me with comforting drinks and goat cheese and Matilda pats my hair, and I miss being human.