I’m nothing but smiles… and wicked grins… fine, so a few cackles have also shimmied their way into the blissful mixt, but in the end I’m mostly smiles and wicked grins.
Yep, I’m grinning like a lunatic wild Witch drunk on waxing Moon and crescent Spring! What are you up to, my Wicked Luvs? What’s blooming around your bit of the universe?
Before you become a hairball in curiosity’s gullet, let me show you these beauties:
They are an early birthday present from BookGirl—thanks so much, my lady. You’ve made a witchy woman happy, happy, happy! (It’s extra-super-special when said thrice).
I don’t know much about the stone (must investigate!), but BookGirl told me that it is “a
Witches Stone from [her] local beach.” (the short investigation has offered evidence which suggests that I can’t read, lol!). It’s the
color of bone with a hole in the center. Yes, I already adore it. Then
there is a first edition of White Is for Witching. The title left my eyes wide and my brain wanting, and the
description of the tale left my heart doing eager reader happy dances:
“Miranda is at home—homesick, home sick ...”
As a child, Miranda Silver developed pica, a rare eating disorder that causes its victims to consume nonedible substances. The death of her mother when Miranda is sixteen exacerbates her condition; nothing, however, satisfies a strange hunger passed down through the women in her family. And then there’s the family house in Dover, England, converted to a bed-and-breakfast by Miranda’s father. Dover has long been known for its hostility toward outsiders. But the Silver House manifests a more conscious malice toward strangers, dispatching those visitors it despises. Enraged by the constant stream of foreign staff and guests, the house finally unleashes its most destructive power.
With distinct originality and grace, and an extraordinary gift for making the fantastic believable, Helen Oyeyemi spins the politics of family and nation into a riveting and unforgettable mystery.
Our dear Miss Pepper didn’t want to feel left out, so she, too, gave me an early birthday present. Isn’t this the most precious bloom? She looks very proud of it.
And my Piano Man showed me that Nature’s wild children refuse to be outshown by their potted counterparts. It’s not quite a jungle out there—yet!—but look at these enthusiastic babies, rising out of Old Man Winter’s grip to be admired by passersby.