Himself: Worked hard. Got up and down more. He was properly wrecked by the end of the day.
Herself: Reached out. That’s so hard sometimes. And too, only one note out of a crowd of visitors yesterday. I’m underwowed.
Reading: Not enthused. I think I will reread an old one while watching the Olympics.
Balance: Getting small things done.
Small things were my triumph yesterday.
I got a hole patched in my gauzy dress. The mountain of from-the-store underwear and socks were taken to the nearest Presbyterian Urban group. Delivered into the terrifying hands of the dragon that man’s their front desk, actually.
"It's the Underwear Lady," I call out. We laugh together, and I tell her I don't' know what else to call myself.
The geezer packed and I took to the Post Office, one giant box of foods and goodies suggested by Bonnie for grandson Aaron. By myself, I would never have thought of chap stick or sunscreen. I’m such a neophyte at this, I also forgot the custom forms. I brought home several fresh customs forms so they can be filled out here. In the mean time, when faced with collapse, being an old hippie, I punted.
Punting isn’t exactly lying. It’s saying I have ten cans of food when who knows how many are in the box. I did remember the chap stick and the sunscreen. I only remembered the Jolly Ranchers at the last moment.
Loose, Jolly Ranchers make great packing material in boxes to Afghanistan. They are wonderful small things, to my mind.