Tóg Go Bog É This Paddy’s Day

It is still sunny out at five minutes past seven, local time, but cold. I have some Guinness in bottles in the fridge that have probably been there since last St. Paddy’s Day, but alas, no green. I’ve been waiting on my refund, three weeks after I e-filed my income tax return. *ahem*


D’you suppose this fine fellow knows where my refund is? (Source: Pottermore.com)

Ah well. I may be poor and a bit pale, but I have most of my health. The day after my forty-sixth birthday, nearly three weeks ago, I succumbed to a bout of shingles. Roughly forty-some years after contracting chickenpox from a schoolmate. The patch, which was confined to my hip, was relatively small and responded to a week of antiviral treatment, but it is still itchy and painful to the touch. And my sleep has been even more erratic than usual. Here’s hoping we can open the windows soon and change the air in the house.

Dear Winter

It’s not you.

It’s me.

Every other ad on my Facebook timeline is for travel to someplace warm. My boss is in Mexico for the March Break. I need to see something lit by the sun, instead of so much grey.

As a push back I refuse to wear socks. The cat puked on my boots, so slipon shoes it is. My need to wander is kicking in. Not sure how far I’ll go in this muck.

But it’s time we break up. Call it. We never bring out the best in each other. I haven’t laced up a pair of skates since high school. Après-ski is just another word for what I already do at home.

What do you think? Let’s sign here.


Vicki Vee