So a leprechaun walks into a flea market. . .

We came home from a little deep South road-trip yesterday afternoon to find our tax forms in the mailbox, sent from the accountant in Chicago. And as good tax forms will, they bummed me straight out.

But I sat right down at the 'puter and found this and this--courtesy a friend in Seattle. And the world--no, the state of Alabama--was suddenly a delightful place.

So yeah, today this mini mall and the crackhead and the amateur sketch and the special thousand-year-old flute/pipe are pretty much keeping me going.

Hey hey. You heard me. We got it. You need it. Oh yeah. Don't stop. Come on now. To the left. To the right.

Don't be afraid, man. I'm just trying to help out.

Baaa

We don't really celebrate Easter. So it sort of came and went without much to-do, except for people at both our workplaces asking us what we were doing over the weekend. We did not much at all. We ate some fried chicken. Greasy-fingered heathens, we.

But it occurs to me now: No butter lambs. This was my first Easter in a long time without the sight of a refigerated display of fresh butter lambs at the Jewel.

Do they do butter lambs in Bama? Was I just not in the grocery store? I kinda suspect a lack of lambs down here.

What a difference four months can make

For the record, there is no part of me that is jealous of Chicago's current snowfall.

(We sure did choose an interesting year to skedaddle, weather-wise!)

I let this thing wither

And now I don't know if I can nurse it back to life or not.

Or if I even should.