It's snowing again. Still. Yet. Actually, it's kind of a slurpy, sloppy, drizzly mix of rain and sleet and snow and all other forms of wet that I am so sick and tired of that I'm ready to spit. Although that would just contribute to the amount of moisture on the ground, so I'll restrain myself.
Winter just doesn't want to give it up this year. We had two sunny, warm days that were designed to lull us into a false sense of impending summer. I weeded and pottered about in the flower beds and had a wonderful time. Bruised my shin on the wheelbarrow. Got bitten by a group of disgruntled ants that didn't take kindly to their domain being disturbed by the dandelion plucker. Still, I have my summer hands coming along nicely. I just can't garden with gloves on - need to feel the dirt. That means cuticles that have dark shadows (whatever happened to Barnaby?), my fingernails are looking a bit ragged, and the myriad lines on my hands have noticeable furrows where the grime is ground in. I love summer.
But now it's back inside to wait out the deluge. I'm knitting, reading, and thinking up some new perils for my heroine, but I'm a bit at loose ends. Think I'll put the zipper in the vest I knitted for husband and get to work on some other projects. Might even write.