I flew down last Thursday to do some stuff and got back yesterday on an early flight. I was dreading the 4.30 a.m. wake-up, but to be honest, I normally wake up then anyway, dragged into consciousness by my increasingly irritable bladder. So it wasn’t that big a deal. It turns out that travelling early on a Sunday morning is a helluva lot less frantic than going later in the day. I even got an empty seat next to me.
Had to get a check-up with the dermo after my surgery this morning. He gave me the once-over and the all-clear. I’ll be back in three months for another check-up. These melanomas really want to kill me, and my dermatologist would like a new disco ball for his hovercraft, so that works out well.
It’s just Thomas and me at home this week, which means one thing.
Chili Week!
I’m not sure why, but I sort of love this spammy piece of shit. I think perhaps it’s because it is SO far off target it sublimes itself away into the realm of the truly, hilariously ridonkulous. Every single par is wrong.
I have an editing cat and this is pretty much my entire work day.
A couple of weeks ago, I heard a titanic crash from the gym, which, being followed immediately by a loud girlie scream, I deduced was not Jane smashing out a PR on her deadlift. Instead, the cable machine had let go of a stack.
Here is the culprit.
I dropped Mister Lambright and his daughter to the airport this morning. They’d been staying with us over the last month, sampling life north of the Tweed. It was a good break from my routine, and we got a surprising amount of work done, too.
I just did my first upper body workout in six weeks. The surgeon warned me to take it easy after the melanoma excision/skin graft, lest I fall to pieces.
So. I kept it light. Used machines not for weights. Dropped the intensity and volume all the way down.
And now I’m dead.
