That about sums up this past week. Everything seems heavy, dull and sludgy. The week has just crawled by. It's been so difficult getting ANYWHERE with all the snow and Jack's big transportation woes and having to clear out the driveway every three minutes. Okay, to be fair, I only had to shovel it out once on my own. Jack had to apply himself to that tiresome task like ninety times or something. But it was hard! And my arms still ache.

It's just...sigh, you know. That time of year.

On the plus side, whilst tunneling out off the street, I had a chance to chat with the neighbours who were also out tunneling and I found out my next door neighbor's last name is Pickles! Yes, I live next door to The Pickles. And the Pickles are expecting a baby gerkin in nine weeks! And the neighbours on the otherside, one door down, whose last name I do not know, but let's call them The Plums are also expecting in about nine weeks. And yet a third family, The Papayas, way down at the end, are preggers too. Holy Monkey, as Penelope would say. Everyone is blaming the Blackout last summer.

I'm not sure what it is exactly that tickles me so about "The Pickles", but I was ruminating about it as i marinated in a fragrant bubble bath last night, staring at the tile surrounding the tub, and into my head popped a little poem. Just popped into my head, whole. And almost magically, a little face appeared in the whorling pattern of the tile*.

It's about a little boy named Slyvester Pickle and that's all I'm going to tell you for now. I'm going to illustrate it and post it for your delight really, really soon. But first I have to drink my coffee, walk the wolf, eat some blueberries and finish up the dinosaur activity book I've been working on. Stay tuned!

*This happens sometimes. The tiles surrounding our tub are glossy and black. I suppose they're suppose to look like marble or granite or something, but they don't. And it was a horrific idea (the previous homeowners' who built this house, not ours) to install black tile around the tub because it shows every water mark, every fingerprint, every smear of soap and is a nightmare to clean. But if you stare at the tiles long enough, little pictures appear. At least they do to me. But you must commit them to memory quickly, 'cuz as soon as you look away, they vanish. And you can never find the same one again. It's kind of like bathing in a magic eight-ball.

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