Reading: Without Reservations, by Alice Steinbach. She's a reporter from Baltimore who dropped everything and went to Europe just to live, breathe, experience. As she is a divorced empty-nester and I am not, some of it is hard to relate to, but some of it is not.
We walked along in companionable silence, stopping at the edge of the Seine to watch the bateaux-mouches glide up and down the river. Inside the lighted boats, people were eating dinner as Paris drifted by. A feeling passed through me, one I couldn't quite identify. Not happiness, exactly; more like the absence of worrying about finding happiness.
Talk about filling my heart with longing. To walk along the Seine in companionable silence and feel the absence of worrying about finding happiness? Bliss.
Here's really all you have to do.
Take one chicken pot pie from Chicken Out:
One cold bottle of Woodchuck:
One devil bottle opener:
One jar of Nutella:
And one copy of Eddie Izzard's latest show:
And your troubles are guaranteed to melt away.
At least until tomorrow.
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