Sore throat Sunday

Watching the ice slowly melting from our backyard hockey rink stirs mixed emotions of bidding another winter adieu and welcoming spring with open arms. After another night of playoff hockey with the young lad and his teammates, followed by three hours of Arabic dancing on high heels at a Lebanese wedding, the old throat is in rough shape today my friends. Tea, honey, and the quilt are on the agenda this afternoon, and I can't help but think about springtime in Paris.
When Paris, when, when will we finally meet? I must confess, I've been dipping into the Paris fund, and no good can come of that. I know darn well that if this behaviour continues, my flight tickets will be farther and farther out of my reach. Therefore my dear Paris, I am committing to a new financial plan - no more frivolous spending. No more silly splurges on unnecessary items such as a milk frother, a citrus cutter, or a melon scooper. It is high time to face the global economy crisis and practice fiscal restraint immediately. Perhaps by early Fall, my dear Paris, I will have accumulated enough coins from the laundry, cash from my book sales, and holding 20 or 30 garage sales thanks to the husband's accumulation of sports parphernelia over the years, two tickets to the city of lights finally make their way tucked into my essential black patent clutch, right beside the passports, and gravol for husband when he flies.
Well Paris, my throat tells me that it's time for another cuppa tea with lemon and honey. And who knows Paris, perhaps if I continue to buy those lottery tickets, we will be together sooner than we dream. Au revoir mon cher Paris! A la prochaine! xoxoxo