The New York Times is delivered on the week end. When I wake up on Friday morning I know it will be in my driveway bringing the world to me including the movie reviews and the op-ed pages, the national news, and the politics of the day, i.e. the latest outrage.
Not that I read it all the time because of the circumstances that vary the cause being three dogs, a diabetic cat, a husband with MCI (beginning of Alzheimer) , my depression, and my addiction to Facebook groups, Reddit, and on line auctions, and quite recently my devotion to Mercari. Lets not forget about my major escape mechanism, reading books voraciously. I have slowed down recently, this month, because of my new addiction to reselling.
I also love Fridays because it has been ingrained in me during my entire working life (once I graduated from pink collar ball and chain, bar tending etc) and with my hot sweaty BSBA I began a living wage career. Friday was the best. Everyone in a good mood knowing freedom was 9 hours away and in the case of the Beverage Co 10 hours away.
Friday meant going to bed early because a whole week of 530 am wake up calls to be up and out at 7am was a killer. When I was informed this was the norm when I was hired I began laughing and he laughed with me. "Sometimes earlier!". Oh hell, he was series as a heart attack.
Since retirement Friday means the New York Times. It doesn't seem like much, but its something for this old Baby Boomer to jump out of bed with a song in her heart.
Just a old gypsy girl trying taking a new journey reselling. What I'm learning as I go. Use to write about my life, but that is now officially boring.
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