It's been a few days since I've written. And that's alright by me. Yesterday was a perfect day: Wake up, lay on the couch with the dog at my feet, drinking coffee, nap here and there. A bike ride down to the water filled a chunk of the afternoon, where I talked to my sister in Pittsburgh for quite some time as the sun peeked in and out of the clouds very intermittently. A wonderful meal was prepared, which was accompanied by the playing of Alice's Restaurant.
Other than work, so much hasn't been going on in my little world. I don't know how glamorously I can portray the drive down to Seattle. Once you hit the Skagit flats, it generally turns into an increasingly congested and uneventful trip. But I'm sort of spoiled being able to bike most places and not being confined to a car. How unhealthy.
So my housemate went down to Texas, and it's me and Magilla for the weekend. Fortunately I stumbled upon another Annie Proulx book from the library. She's like the Flannery O'Conner of the High Plains, and once I pick up one of her books, it is virtually impossible to put down.
But in the spirit of the holiday, I am very lucky to have my health, wit, family, wonderful friends and community, food in the cupboard, money in the bank, and a roof over my head. And ugly dog that just got taken for a walk.