from an old New Yorker cover
Some days you need to just go back to bed since you can never step onto the same floor ever, meaning you cannot repeat your best day ever although you so need to once in a great while. And there are days when you wish you got start-overs, which are better than do-overs because grand mistakes do not bear repeats. Think about it. But then again, and still and all, if we got them, what guarantee would we have that the results would be different and therefore better? I mean, as old and as wise as I should be I still do some dumb stuff I should have learned not to do again, then do.
I love the sun. I know better than to stay parked beneath it's rays like too-wet colored laundry when the dyes aren't colorfast. But, and I do mean but . . . Being free to move about or climb into bed without assistance went to my brain; throw in an absence of pain and a body tends to lose it's common sense. It felt so-o-o good being able to come and go, not having to holler "Oh!" and to choose between head-butting a wall or grabbing your back. Sometimes you quickly consider doing the first just hard enough to knock yourself out cold, just long enough to forget you have to make such choices anyway. But you get over it because being conscious brings with it the lovely reward of going to the patio as often as you want, unassisted. Yeah!
So why I over-did it repeatedly is beyond my ken. I blame the cool north easterly winds that fooled me into being foolish. I marveled out loud about how good the sun felt on my skin. I told JC how I felt it hugging my bones in detail. "The umbrella is up," I reassured him when he questioned my decision to roast and re-roast. He left me to it. Besides, I had my big Clean Kanteen filled with icy cold water.
Fast forward to headache, chills, feverish skin, a need to "cool off" and lie in the dark before passing out into an hours-long deep sleep riddled with too vivid dreams. JC wanted to take my temperature as I huddled beneath a sheet, a quilt, and a heavy, hot, furry Minuet. I told him to "just touch my hands. See how hot they are?"
I live to tell the tale. And, when I couldn't sleep last night because I'd already slept, I finished a two-day old letter I'd forgotten and put aside; I remembered to re-size photos for a post meant to follow the last, found my Christmas cards and mail in a Target bag, and here I sit. Of course he said, "I told you so."
Being a nut cracker is nothing new to me.
I posted the envelope earlier and forgot to include the lovely card you see above it. Doh me. Thanks and forgive me, Angela?
Another bag booklet. Just add words.
Paper doilies dress up anything. It's even dressier if you just add words.
It's hard to decide which way is up here. Just add words to help point the way.
This still needed help the day I sealed it in its envelope. I just added a few words.
Sure wish I could take back those kittens. Sorry. Sure hope I added enough words.
The contents of that sealed wrap is more than a note. It has a whole bunch of words inside! It's a double sided letter! Clever sun-struck me, huh? Some things seem to come together of their own accord. That's life in the paper bag lane! Just add words.
A single letter atop all those words.
That lovely ribbon with the little gold threads is years old, and still one of my favorites. It wasn't as difficult to part with the wicked witch stamp as I'd imagined after all these years. Besides, it's best to share.
It took a little doing to get everything to slide into the envelope. All those words!
Unsure which is the best side, I did a back and a profile.
The last hurrah before the seal!
And just before the Sand Man threatened to shut me down, I played with Flow. It's where I go when a good picture story is all I need to embellish a wordless flap, or a handful of words are the only necessaries required to make a pretty little picture story better. Sometimes both are best if you just add a few words.