Today is the day we feed homeless kids. I think we'll have plenty of people to cook and serve and clean up. My fridge is bursting with vegetables and James and I have a run to Costco planned as soon as I get back from work. I've got clinic to do, drat, but only half a day.
The days are sunny, one after the other. I worry about my garden at my old house and think I should go water it. The strawberries are ripe and no one is picking them. The lettuce is probably bolting. Soon enough, the new owners will be walking around the yard, contemplating the plants and trees and enjoying the hummingbirds who visit the flowers. Two more weeks perhaps, and the deal will be complete and I'll have $$ from the sale to pay off two mortgages and start fixing mi casa on the greenbelt.
Jim came over yesterday and I gave him my very crude drawing of my ideas; a new kitchen with cabinets that match (!) that we'll find on Craig's list for free or at Second Use, the used building supply place, a bigger bedroom with recycled windows and tra-la, a studio place with lots of storage that opens onto a deck.
Pouring a foundation is the first thing after the demolition {{{{excitement}}}}} and expensive. And we need a permit from the city. If we don't have one, there's hell to pay, apparently.
I've begun an aerobics class down the street that my neighbor goes to. An hour of hell. In front of mirrors. Gawd. I need a bra that really straps the girls down. Otherwise, they go bouncing around like deer in the field. The instructor is a wiry gal with boundless energy and torture ideas. All to very loud gospel music. Twice a week.
I didn't know that Maya Angelou was once a cabaret singer. She wept when Obama gave her the Congressional Metal of Honor even though she said she didn't cry in public. She got a lot done.
1 comment:
"She got a lot done."
So do you, dear woman. So do you.
Post a Comment