In spite of: the ferocious fibro flair-up caused by the eight hours I spent cleaning the Big Guy’s room (I will spare you the gory details) (you can thank me via thoughtfully worded telegrams attached to overly large bottles of Advil), the fact that the contract I was supposed to get in the mail by now for my Miss Delacourt sequel has yet to arrive, my grief over the recent intel that if I continue to consume cookies, cake, crust a la pizza or bread, it will eventually kill me (one can regularly find me weeping in the Hostess section of the grocery store) and my consternation over the news that my husband’s school is on the federal government’s hit list for being shut down for low test scores, (one should expect low scores when one tests Spanish speakers in English), none of which amounts to a hill of beans compared to the stuff I'm not including in this list, I am HAPPY because the first rose has bloomed in my garden. (Deep sigh of pure and utter contentment.)
The Mary Rose by David Austen
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