|The royal touring sedan.|
This humble citizen of Bermtopia Nailed the Holidays. Almost all of them.
This is a household with issues.
MY kind of issues.
As in -- never let a good holiday/vacation catch you on the blind slide: Santa. Claus. (Wreath check!) Summer Sea World (Flamingo check!) Mighty
I like pre-planning.
House with the Many Holiday Shout-outs, you get a major Bermtopia High Five. And extra credit for leaving the wreath up after Feast of the Epiphany!
Then there is the Sad Little Single Black Shoe. This has haunted me all week. One lone, recreationally-challenged shoe parked on an enclosed deck.
Does not your partner miss you, Sad Little Single Black Shoe? Or is this some tangled, twisted symbol of a good love gone wrong?
Ambrose took every thing from Tilly.
Her heart, her hope, her Walmart VIP Card.
But Ambrose was not done with Tilly. He, cruelly, left ONE thing behind.
A single black shoe.
Her daily reminder that Ambrose was, in the end, a real heel.
And finally. The Made-up Word Sign.
What's next? SpokaLicious? SpokaTastic? SpoUcking Spawesome?
Guards, remove this sign from my presence.
It disturbs me.
But on the other hand, we had a little "Pippa Passes" moment Monday morning here in Bermtopia.
It was foggy when I staggered out the front door to get the morning paper. I mean F.O.G.G.Y. I think I swallowed some. I hope it contains anti-oxidants.
I walked into the kitchen and told Ben, "Looks like a neighborhood walk this morning. We'd be bouncing off pine trees up at the park."
|Portrait of a Mopey Dog.|
With apologies to Robert Browning (oh wait. you're dead! never mind.), who's poetry I love:
|The year's at the spring|
And day's at the morn;
|Morning's at seven;|
The hill-side's dew-pearled;
|The lark's on the wing;|
The snail's on the thorn: