"Lotsa, lotsa, lotsa, lotsa.....".

...love." Well, that's the way the line goes in the British series, "Fortysomething." It's often spoken by a younger-something female in response to saying goodbye to most any older-something male character. One of those things that really just sticks in one's mind, especially when confronted with "lotsa" just about anything. (Funny, crazy little series, by the way - especially if you are a fan of dry wit, British perspective, fridges, stacks of traffic cones, young adults, Hugh Laurie...)

This morning, that "lotsa" would be rain...and thunder...and lightning. And on the other side of the room, our ancient dog is trying desperately to dig her way to China through the hardwood floor - hoping to escape the dreaded storming outside.

I woke to bare rumblings from the heavens way too early on a Saturday morning, prepared a simple breakfast/coffee, and propped by feet up in my corner chair/sanctuary to check my email, and there was that gentle rattle of sprinkling on the roof and trickles running out the gutters. I thought, "I love that sweet sound". Fifteen minutes later, I'm startle-jumping at a near lightning hit.

Lotsa rain. Lotsa stuff to do inside the house. Lotsa stuff to do in the garage. Lotsa decisions to make when one puts a "For Sale" sign of the house where one has lived for 30 years. Lotsa, lotsa, lotsa, lotsa....