The name is Romance. Mister Romance.

The Missus and I went out on a hot date last night, or what passes for a hot date around here: dinner at the local Mexican place followed by a trip to the Barnes and Noble. We backed into that date plan about a year ago, as we had to pick up a birthday present for someone, and the logical dynamic of it just struck. With four kids running around the house, the only thing of value at more of a premium than privacy is good conversation.

I've a backlog of stuff that I want to write about---I'm currently caught up in my gardening planning and will put in the first wave of the seed order later today. I've got a little photo essay cooking, but first I'll have to caulk the tub in the master bath, plus a dozen other chores that piled up during my bout with the Klingon Death Flu. This is the first weekend since November it seems like that we're not travelling, we don't have house guests, and everyone's healthy.

Not to mention later tonight, we're going to dip into what I got The Dear One for her birthday at the beginning of the month:

Yes, yes, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa, let the waves of gleeful derision and cackling commence from certain Cake Eaterly quarters in the great north woods. Sue me, sue me, shoot bullets through me..... The Dear One and I watched it when it was on A&E lo those many years ago: it was the winter before we had any kids, it was on the week of the big Charlottesville blizzard, and basically everything was shut down for a week---it was certainly the week of Jane Austen for us. We had a little party every night for her book club, we had a pot luck dinner followed by Colin Firth in our little grad school apartment. I even kept my "Tom Selleck could kick Colin Firth's brooding butt" jokes to a minimum. The whole thing occupies a special place in the memory vault, and yours truly, believe it or not, is good for the occasional good gesture in the marriage department.