It's a quiet Sunday here in the Western Hemisphere.
I know deardiary says it's Monday on this entry. But trust me. It's Sunday by me.
It is solid overcast outside and a slight breeze is blowing. The cat is curled up on top of my computer desk, resting his chin on a rolled up towel I put there for him to cuddle in.
Hub Man has gone off to see if they are going to hold another skydiving supplimental class that he wants to take. In the area of risk, we could not be more different. Here he is, jumping out of perfectly good airplanes, and my idea of living dangerously is going to bed without brushing my teeth.
I am a truly, deeply, responsible first born. If there was a black belt in "Responsibility", I would have one. If they gave out PhD's in responsibility, I would be a professor.
This means, I may not be the life of the party, but you can depend on me. I'm steady. I keep the home fires burning. . .
But I don't jump out of airplanes, unless they are on fire or something.
We all have our little quirks don't you know.