Who's the sh*t?

Thursday, we had Our Favorite Baltimorians to dinner. They brought roses, because they're the sh*t.
I made rhubarb cobbler, because I'm the sh*t.


(Unfortunately, Frog was too small. Not everybody can be the sh*t.)

Friday morning, we found our car covered in what looked like petals, even though we hadn't parked beneath a flowering tree.

Oddly, the car was covered, not in petals, but in confetti hearts. What can I say? n.o.c. and I are the sh*t. The universe f*cking loves us.