In a moment, here, the Muse will be having her way with me. But in the meantime, George brought us flowers:
Which delight not only because George is a wonderful photographer (which he is), but because when I was growing up, crocuses always meant spring had almost sprung. It also meant we'd be out in the yard around the wishing well with toothpicks and saran wrap a day or two later, desperately trying to keep the little buggers alive. When they bloomed, you could be assured a snowstorm was on the way. Lousy sense of timing they had.
And my heart sister Nicole has a poetry contest going for National Poetry Month. Really not to be missed, you poets, so break out the rhyming dictionaries and once again curse the dearth of entries under "daffodil."
I'd love to stay and rhaposdize, but the Muse and I need to go have an argument about what one should write immediately upon seeing something as saccharine as 27 Dresses.