This guy. And wine, provolone, and salami for dinner, with a side of Gilmore Girls. Cure for a Monday.
Drink, book, sun, crashing waves. Happy place achieved. (Helped along by ultra weird resort Thanksgiving performance of a guy dressed in a turkey suit running down the beach from a Mayan Indian with a musket.)
Not sure why I've tied myself down on Thanksgiving in the past. This is not sucking and I am feeling very thankful.
This is my Dad, Cecil Ray Palmer, about 1945 at home at 110 East Henry Street, Savannah, with 1939 Mercury. Dad and my grandmother (born in Clyde, Ga, which is now Ft. Stewart), both pronounced words ending in "oil" as "awl." So, he changes the "awl" in the car, wraps leftovers up in "tin fawl," (not aluminum foil), and goes to a "srimp bawl" (a shrimp boil.) Yep, no "h" in his pronunciation of shrimp. #bshowwetalk
Traffic, spilt coffee, inconclusive medical diagnosis, more traffic, drive to Cumming, Blue Screen of Death/hour three of being dead in the water while working on a deadline. IT and endless updates. Just now eating lunch. I'm having a Tuesday. Just telling myself I can see the sun, and it could always be way worse.