A day off

Today I was determined to finish the sweater. Finish it, I’m telling you. I checked the properties of the first picture of it, taken Thursday, February 9 2017.

There was only the ribbing of one cuff left to do. Sixteen rows of knit two, purl two. I spent the day on it, on the whole. I finished pulling in the last of the ends before Laura came in.

I did take a call early in the day from the neurologist. Nine in the morning. I could have been in the shower, but wasn’t, and didn’t. The gist of call is, the new neurologist read the EEG done in his office, and was pleased to tell me my brain is as normal as can be, just like EEG several months ago. I can halve the Keppra every two weeks for a month and be done.

Oh, yes, and I can come back in a year. I asked if my cardiologist or any other of my doctors might know if I should see a neurologist. He thought they would know. “So, we’ll just leave it at that,” I said.

When I remembered to comb my hair this morning, I realized it’s time to stop fighting the part. I can’t recall ever using a part in my hair. Now I have a part that follows the scar in my skull. If that were the worst of it, I could smile and carry on.

On the other hand, we’re getting closer to spring. My little weather app says thirty eight tomorrow and chance of a frozen mix. 

Someone just told me Rand Paul threw a wrench into the gears of government, so I took a look at the feed. He has. Further down, I read there are Democratic bills introduced to block Trump's parade.

Now, I doubt my postcards were more than a pint of water over Niagara Falls, but I asked a lot of representatives and senators:

DO WE NEED CONGRESSIONAL APPROVAL OF A PARADE?