Spring has sprung.

And life has gotten in the way of my words today. Not only am I spending too many hours dealing with the stucco guy, and painters, and the sprinkler man, and the money men (because you can't surrender you savings account to the stucco guy, painters, and the sprinkler man without meeting with a "finance team"), but I've just somehow punched a divot directly above my right eyebrow and the bleeding isn't in a particular hurry to stop.
 
This happened because I am not a particularly graceful person. I'm almost as clumsy as our much-missed kitty, Pinky. Now I'm wondering if I'm going to have a scar when this is done. A scar would only be fun if it was achieved in a particularly memorable way.
 
What happened to me wasn't particularly cool.
 
Oliver Queen couldn't help but notice the mysterious scar above her right eyebrow. Too late, he realized she was watching him.
 
"The scar? It happened in the Spring of 2017," she said in a smoky voice. "Hurrying to enter my car, I thunked my head into the edge of the roof as the front door swung into my legs. And what of you, Mr. Queen? How did you get quite so many scars?"
 
"Oh, hey, look at the time," Oliver said. "Gotta go!"
 
Me, too. So no blog this week. If this bleeding doesn't stop, maybe no blog next week, either.

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