The rose is a flower of love. The world has acclaimed it for centuries. Pink roses are for love hopeful and expectant. White roses are for love dead or forsaken, but the red roses, ah the red roses are for love triumphant.
So this weekend is the anniversary of the Best Weekend Ever. We had reservations to go back to the Spanish restaurant tonight, but David is sick and I twisted my ankle pretty good, so I can’t wear heels, so we’re postponing until next weekend. Plus, David had to work today (boo – they don’t pay him enough to work as much as he does) and is exhausted, so it’s unfortunate, but it’s for the best.
But, he just came home with these,
which are gorgeous, and which I wasn’t even expecting, and a sweet card. We just put wine in the fridge for later, and we’ve got Sopranos and Barletts and plenty of movies to choose from, so we’re good to go. Who knows what we’ll do for dinner, though. It won’t be tapas, but it won’t matter, as long as the seat next to me on the couch is filled by my baby.