Welcome to the weekend, chickens.
A weekend with no red eye flights in my near future is maybe one of my favorite things.
This morning, JD and I tried our best to enjoy a not-even-early hot yoga class, but in the end, acknowledged that maybe the positive energy just wasn’t flowing for us.
Bagel sandwiches and caffeine made it a little more manageable.
Up on this unseasonably warm day, I’m listening to too much Taylor Swift (I admit to it as part of the healing process, chickens), cleaning up my house to look like someone actually lives in it, and then, JD, Ky and I are headed to The Suburbs for the afternoon.
JD heads there every day for work, but a leisurely car ride with the promise Sirius radio, IKEA and a chain restaurant lunch is a rare treat for the three of us.
It doesn’t take much to set us up for success.
I’ll likely end up buying several strange candles and furniture I have no hope of ever putting together.
And now, I’m off to get ready to head to the land of strip malls and four lane roads.
If you don’t hear from me in twelve hours, send help.
And a cab.