If they call my spouse "the love of her life" in my obituary, I'll be gritting my teeth somewhere.
It's not because he didn't woo the socks right off me and can't still do it any time he chooses (well okay — not any time, but just about), or because we won't be there for each other, or because I don't love him dearly. Blah blah blah.
But that's my business. Even after I'm dead.
If I wrote my own obituary, I'd like it to say simply "This was not my idea."
It was seen chiseled into a tombstone in a book about gravesites.
Not that I don't enjoy reading obituaries. Any old obit will do, too.
Okay now; given the title of this entry, I must include something about frogs.
How about: A pair of geese are sniffing out froggy things in my back yard.
(Is that too much of a stretch?)
The frogs have started up and are getting louder and louder. Their season ritual is stunning music. It makes me want to quaff libations and prance in the clearings! It makes me grateful to be greeting another spring.