Hello? Can I get some Raindrops on Roses over here?

After the week we’ve had here, I could do with some raindrops on roses or whiskers on kittens, or perhaps a tutti fruity tropical beverage with a pink umbrella on top.

Everything was going along swimmingly.

Our trees, lush and pink and beautiful, burst into bloom right on schedule.

And then it snowed.

Which was fine. I can roll with it. The season doesn’t want to move on, kind of like those guys who are all that in high school but then they stick around too long and go from cool to creepy.  The lettuce, however, took issue with the creep.

And hey, wow, where does the time go?  Had an entire month really passed without a visit to  the ER?  That simply won’t do, so off we ran to log some scary time there with our nine year old.  Truth be told I’m over this record breaking streak of emergency room visits.   Though I think all I need is one punch more in my frequent flier card to be eligible for that free boob job.

Oh yes, and another bone up and broke in my stupid foot.  Let’s just say turning 40 and jumping rope don’t exactly go hand in hand.

No worries.  I can deal.  I mean, the snow did eventually stop falling, and we’ll replant the lettuce as soon as it warms up again.  At least no driving means no carpool duty for a whole 3-4 weeks.  Someone pass me the bon-bons.

You see, all good.  We’ve got hail on tulips instead of raindrops on roses, but I’m not one to complain.  After all, I’ve got nephews in overalls,

And girls with red tulips–

Blooms persevering,

And a bustling new business.

Well, these are actually the brains of the operation–

With the snow melting away and mom laid up and out of the way, they decided to embark on an ambitious bug selling venture.  If consulted I probably would have pointed out the flaws in their business plan so it’s best that I was left to hobble around unobtrusively.

Good thing too.  Out they went, up and down the street with a tupperware o’ bugs, and back they came with 70 cents clutched in their filthy, bug-germy entrepreneurial little hands.

Baths?  They don’t need no stinkin’ baths.  That stench is merely the smell of success.