Nice Day

In fact, I had no real nickname when I was a child, and no middle name ever, so my name, which I don't like, is pretty much all I've ever had. Oh, my sister called me Bushy -- really -- when I was a baby, because she said my hair all stood up on my head, like a bush. Or something. My father often called me "Sannie-Pie" (the s is pronounced like a z) as a take-off on Sweetie Pie, and for a period of years my sister actually did routinely call me E-Pie. (I did the same sweetie pie thing with my kids' names, too.) If there was a name I detested, it was Rosie, and anyone calling me that would be the immediate target of a very nasty tantrum. Which is all to say that I was doing something nice for myself today, and the thought went through my head that I was "doing something nice for Little Sanne." You remember, the kid in the picture the other day.

So now it's turning into a real thing, which is also okay, because with any luck, I can somehow turn it over into a kind of meditation, which can only be good for me. After I had that thought, I ran through all those "lovelier thoughts, Michael" memories, you know, the things I would have to think of in order to fly after Peter Pan sprinkled the fairy dust on me. (Or alternatively, the things that would help me conjure a Patronus. Pick your children's mythology.) All this was while I was getting a therapeutic massage on my neck and shoulders. So, all good. And this was after a quick shopping trip with my sister.

And my knee is much better, even without the cane. Of course, my hearing aids are winging their way to Pittsburgh, or wherever it is they get fixed -- I don't know why I think it's Pittsburgh, but I do -- and I have the substandard loaner, but again, whatever.

If only I didn't have to get up in the morning. Twelve more days.



watching FAMILY GUY :: ENTRY #2062
READING: American Lion: Andrew Jackson by Jon Meacham