Fruition

Ok. I haven't started the search for my new Spring color this year, yet. But I have changed my diet to: a meal followed by fruit. Sometimes the meal is the fruit, other times, simply a chaser. I have been seeing bathroom kitty a good deal...

I know, potty mind in the morning is something no one should have to face before the 3rd cuppa. Let's hope you are well on your way to that. The unicorn meat eating cats have given up the hunt in this mud, but they can smell Spring coming like the promise of a firm handshake on Valentine's Day.

Speaking of...my favorite (not) holiday of the year. Let us all drop out of warp speed for a moment to celebrate the most useless holiday of my existence. The trip past the idea of 'romantic love' is nice, but the followup is simply dreadful. The gigantor boxes of chocolates, the 2 dozen red roses, the lace undergarments, the fluffy handcuffs, ad naseum, to things I would rather not think of, on my stomach.

Juxtaposed with this is peripheral damage, or the only manageable side of Valentine's Day. The fruition, as it were, of all that sweaty romance: Valentine's Day with one's children.

My mother sweetly gave my brother and I unique Valentine's cards for most of her life. I still have some of them, tucked away in small boxes, and one special creation that lives in my fire chest. If nothing I have survives, after a disaster, I will have that message to keep me going.

As Spring approaches, this thought of my mother, with the anniversaries of the births of my brother and I, and some cloudy, genetic memory of lambs and a green, green grass keep me willing to embrace a bit more of this grey winter. Which still has gold and purple and silver to recommend it.

And so, load her/him up with wine and chocolate and retreat into the petal-strewn boudoir, the pillows liberally sprinkled with glitter. Dust off the champagne glasses, bite into that raspberry cream, and think of creative ways to spread chocolate on oneself...Let's see what happens.