In the next 25 hours, I have to work an eight-hour shift, drive into Lodi to get my prescriptions, haul a suitcase out of the back storage cubby, pack, secure the valuables, manage a little paper work and bill-paying, drive to Sacramento, and board a jet. When I step off the plane from the second leg of my journey, the smiling face of my biggest fan Pat Reynolds will greet me. I can barely contain my excitement!
I slept poorly last night though. I dreamed about broken dreams. A crash startled me into a rigid consciousness with the house still dark. The ancient thermostat from my old home had fallen off the wall and clobbered the radio. I stood in the chilly gloom holding the heavy brass gadget, staring at its rusty clock which forever announces twenty minutes past the hour of four.
This morning, I made coffee from yesterday’s grounds. I scrambled the last two eggs in creamy butter and slid the fluffy loveliness onto a toasted gluten-free muffin. I ignored the news and scrolled through social media. I have no time for the awkwardness of our broken political climate.
Fair warning: I might not blog much for the next five days. Be assured that for once, radio silence does not mean the absence of joy, but an overflowing cup which cannot contain itself, much less sit still long enough to record each giddy moment. When I return, I’ll bring pictures.
It’s the ninth day of the sixty-fourth month of My Year Without Complaining. Life continues.