We arrived home from California just in time to celebrate my birthday. It had to be the best birthday I've ever had. If I said that last year as well, then just accept the fact that my life just keeps getting better. The morning was split, partly with my knitting needles, working on sweaters for my granddaughters, and later with a wonderful novel. It's Melissa Mayhue's newest Highlander novel, and when she combines magic and Scotland, it's a perfect read.
John took me to lunch at the Olive Garden. We gallivanted around town for hours, then had frozen custard at Culvert's, and finally went over to the Cracker Barrel to pick up take out dinners (in case we ever got hungry that night). He did. I didn't. Mine kept until the next night. And we were home enough for just about every person I love to call and wish me a happy birthday. I think those calls, and the cards I received, just made the day all the more special.
I had realized on our way home from California that I might be getting sick. My chest felt congested. Luckily, I didn't really get to feeling nasty until the night after my birthday. I got up during the night and took some cold medicine, and have been under the weather since, but I don't care. I'm still happy. At least I'm home.