Some Days

"Some Days Are Diamonds, Some Days Are Stone" (John Denver, 1986).

And some days are just plain blah, yesterday for an example.  Not as hot as it has been, but too hot to want to do much.  No cooking shows, phooey.  NASCAR was a drag (pun intended), but had a good finish.  With his recent pedicure, Michael has once again become a ghost dog, silently moving through the rooms.  He has learned the benefit of letting me use the spray bottle on his head and neck.  With his spiky wet hair, he looks like a punk rocker.  (I don't want to know what I look like.)

With Craig's advice, I've decided to return the new, unopened TV, even though I'm sure that once I do, the old one will conk out and I'll go through the ordeal again.  Helper Dude had a change of plans and won't be here until tomorrow.  I'm hoping he can get that unwieldy box into the truck for me.

I'm not expecting diamonds today, but maybe something better than a rock.

Stay safe.  Be well.