A day later, and my temperature now seems to be peaking at 100.4, which I'm taking as a victory. A day on the couch, listening to Those Were The Days (check it out every Saturday, 1-5 p.m. Chicago time on WDCB radio, streaming video, but probably available at other times, too ... I can hardly wait until February, which is Jack Benny month, but I digress) has helped.
I missed negotiations yesterday, needless to say. I haven't gotten any angry or panicked calls from other team members or union members, so I have to assume things didn't go to hell in a handcart in my absence. Wow, egotistical much, woman?
I called my mother, something I've decided to do as much as possible for the foreseeable future. She is 85, and as lucky as I was to visit her last May, I'm not going to take her for granted now. It's such a shock - I know it shouldn't be, but it is - to get up every day and be grateful by the end of the day that someone I love is still alive.I started feeling that way a year or so ago, and the feeling has only grown with every news obituary about some person her age or younger. She is one of my two best friends, and one of the three people I love most in the world and I know that I have very little time left with her, so I'll use the telephone a lot, and bless Alexander Graham Bell, for allowing me to be with her in some way, even though we're thousands of miles apart.
BB just came home with the groceries, which included a monstrously large chocolate cake (if you're familiar with Costco's baked goods, you'll understand my use of that modifier). He cut both of us a slice, added a generous helping of ice-cream ... and now we are, the both of us, in a chocolate-sugar-bomb-quasi-coma. I think that's a reasonable way to end the day, eh?
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