It's not even April any more. It's May. That means the petals have already mostly dropped off of this:
It also means that Sunday will be full of the promise of summer, one whiff of the light breeze bringing to mind barbecues and water ice and inappropriately skimpy speedos on inordinately misshapen beachgoers. And then Monday will arrive chilly and wet and leave one feeling really stupid about joyfully cramming all of one's sweaters and cozy socks into one's underbed storage. Happy Monday, everybody.
But let us not dwell on the depressing gray skies. Let us rejoice at the receiving of tax returns, small as those checks might be for some of us. Let us rejoice at the prospect of viewing those scantilly clad beach studs in all their resplendent glory of rolls. For it is they who shall make us feel great about whatever "Winter weight" we might have put on. I mean, what is five, ten, or twenty little pounds, compared to the wooly mammoth in the rubber band? And finally, let us rejoice at the return of Ritas and her delicious, delicious gelatti.
Bethany's flowers are wicked bad, non?