I'm a Flower of the Mountain but not The Sick Rose

A book that I was tempted to buy yesterday but didn't

It's 3:16 pm on the west coast, we're battening down the hatches in anticipation of some big rainstorm, and I've only been home for about an hour. The rest of the day was spent in my car, driving around the big shitty, dropping my children off and picking them up. When I got home I heated up some spinach artichoke dip that I found in the freezer (please don't judge) and scooped it up with tortilla chips. I'm also going to eat an apple and thereby avoid a heart attack (have you heard that eating an apple a day is as effective as taking a statin?). I am waiting for Sophie's bus to drop her off, when I would normally have to transfer her to my sexy white Mazda and head out for the Ventura Freeway to pick up Henry from track practice. Between bites of dip (don't judge me) and chips, and before the apple, though, I idly texted a friend and asked whether her son was staying late today and if so, could she pick up Henry as well and drive him home?

She said yes.

Her yes was equivalent to Molly Bloom's yes I said yes I will Yes. My overabundance of joy at not having to drag Sophie into the car and travel on the Ventura Freeway at rush hour, readers, might be difficult to understand, but trust me when I compare it to Molly and Leopold's rapture. It was that good.

...I was a Flower of the mountain yes when I put the rose in my hair like the Andalusian girls used or shall I wear a red yes and how he kissed me under the Moorish Wall and I thought well as well him as another and then I asked him with my eyes to ask again yes and then he asked me would I yes to say yes my mountain flower and first I put my arms around him yes and drew him down to me so he could feel my breasts all perfume yes and his heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will Yes. 

James Joyce, Ulysses