Rain and Pink toenail polish

It's Sunday night and I'm sitting on my back porch, drinking coffee, and listening to the rain fall on the tin roof. At least I think it's tin. Maybe aluminium. Either way, you get the idea. It's the perfect closing to a perfect weekend. Or is it a perfect beginning to a start of a new week? I've never quite known where Sundays fall on that great theological divide. Is it the end of a week, culminating in rest or the beginning of a new, the symbol of new life and creation? Heaven knows.

At any rate, all this perfection brings to mind one person and one person only: the great Norman Rockwell. Did you know that Norman Rockwell got divorced? That's like saying Cinderella doesn't get Prince Charming. We're all doomed.

I think I was going to a happier place with the whole Rockwell stream-of-consciousness, but now you know what happens when I try to write on the back porch during mosquito season in mid-June. Things turn ugly.

So I'll leave you with this (because I wrote the title first and I'm too lazy to change it. Stupid, stupid writer's folly): as of last night I have pretty pink toes which means the summer season is officially kicked off. And each time I look at my toes, I get a little happy flutter inside. Like a love flutter. Except it's for my toes.