Reading and writing

Happy 65th birthday to Frank. I tried to call him, but Google Fi said he was unavailable, whatever that means. I’m pretty sure both kids tried to call him as well. I sometimes get sad at my poor scattered family, all four of us far apart. But everyone seems happy, living their own life, so I guess nothing to be sad at, right?

Today, I absolutely exhausted myself at work, doing 200 roll-outs in 4 hours, and holy cow, I hurt. Gaela was being a pain at doggy day care, getting out — jumping off the balcony, brat, so I was in a hurry to get home anyway. But as soon as I got home, I sat down, got a beer, and started reading. (I’m reading Michelle Obama’s book, and it is wonderful.)

Frank said something in a comment today about my writing, and how that was good. At some point, I realized that I can write when I read. If I stop reading, I stop writing. And for some reason, when I read, I seem to need to write.

It feels funny to be writing a journal of sorts again. When it was about the brain tumor, it was focused and had a purpose. But I kept a lifestyle journal for years, and often participated in Holidailies. I’m doing that again, and enjoying it so far. It feels like fun old times. I’m all in for feel good, fun times. (I hope!)

I made bruchetta at work. I think they came out really well. I even ate one. Mmm.

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