Stella tied her shoelaces by herself this morning. And I was not in a rush to get out the door. Call the me from three months ago and ask if that scene would have had a chance in hell of happening.
Today is a good day. I'm at the point of being able to grocery shop again, and crave a snack at 10 am again, and put mascara on the eyelashes that are still holding fast for now. The loaf of bread that has taunted me since last Friday when I had a slice post-chemo... oh wait... just had to swallow back a bit of varmint there... that loaf is in the garbage now. Ding dong, the witch is dead. I can't begin to describe how that bread has haunted my every waking moment, with only the thought of having to go out to buy new bread worse.
As I was driving away (away, I tell you!) from Wal-Mart to pick up some shovels and playing cards and cheap DVDs for our upcoming trip to Osoyoos, I heard Drugs in My Pocket by the Monks and thought of the Sunday afternoon singing sessions in S's living room with my cousin A, belting out the tunes at full-tilt and having a fucking blast. Perhaps not a surprise to some that I have a bit of a tendency toward singing my brains out at the slightest provocation (quiet, all you phone company people), but seriously, it sometimes takes six days of serious nausea to remind a gal how much fun it is to release the hounds.
Like I said, today is a good day.