It's not easy to remember how different things are when you're in your own apartment, able to have conversations with people who are farther away than a condo balcony and yet dealing with the fact that you can't just zoom out and buy a chocolate bar at the neighbourhood chocolate bar place. Ah, I shouldn't make that nice neighbourhood store sound like there's nothing but chocolate there, although I actually can't confirm it or deny it, as chocolate is all I've ever bought there.
Earlier, I had a strange discussion with myself about whether or not to add mascara to my strangely-inefficient-recently-smoothed-on-my-face make-up. In the end, I went for it, telling myself that I'm a mascara person and have been so since I was 16 and some virus isn't going to make me give that fun up. Almost right away, other-me jumped up to remind me that really, I do that for myself, so I can't expect Dave to notice improved eyelashes. (Dave, you know that I sometimes write what I think is amusing rather than what is real)
Today, our daughter Emily is going to post a musical something she and her partner will perform on Facebook, and it's reminded me of how much she and I sang together one spring, sitting together in the car, getting her ready to prove she should be in the music class the next year. As it turned out, she took dance, but that seemed like a possibly great decision, and it would have been if she hadn't left school to become a Starbucks person. All to say that she still loves music and I love to hear her make it, and instead of Starbucks, she works for the Canadian Museum of History. "Too much babbling!!!" Emily is thinking, I imagine. And it wouldn't be