"Tra la. It's here. That shocking time of year. When tons of wicked little thoughts merrily appear."
Yes, It's official. From Seders to Sunrise Services to the idiocy of "Daylight Savings" (where? in a jar?) to the inarguable tilt of the planet and the Whickershim wirlings of the wild Wiccan waifs:
The absolute proof is here at the annual egg decorating baccanal chez Scott/Nakamura.
Nobody throws an egg-fest like these ritcheous elves.
Here is John working on a creation.
And some of the finished product.
Our homage to the extended hours of sunshine - expansion of the deck not densely shaded to accommodate a lounger.
I know. Sunshine is no friend to the skin, but I can't resist the lure of a wee bask now and then. No more than twenty minutes at a time - tops - I promise.
Poor Miss Puss is gonna miss her dirt baths when it's finished. Who
knew dirt could be so enticing?
Our neighbors with the pool stopped by to tell us a new tenant has moved in. Tommy Flanagan. No shit. We haven't seen nor heard any sign of a motorcycle - yet.
House owner and friend, Sean, said Mr. Flanagan said we were still welcome to use the pool, but I'd be way too shy to just go over and introduce myself. Maybe if we meet one day in the drive way, I'll mention it. Or maybe I'll just climb over the fence and fall in accidentally.