November 7th, 2019


My typewriter is fixed.

Chuck fixed it.  He's the typewriter fix-it guy.  Its belt's days are number, though, and you can't buy replacement ones, so I may pick up another typewriter like this one if I can find one cheap, just to have an extra.  But he oiled it up good, so it may last a while, especially if I don't use the typewriter a lot (and I don't).

The painting I wanted isn't as negotiable as I need it to be, alas.  So I'm getting a canvas print instead.  Should still be pretty nice, but not like having the real painting, of course.

We had our department lunch today.  So I have leftover good mac 'n' Ig-Vella-cheese to take home.

Yesterday kicked my ass, with a confluence of health stuff.  Such is life sometimes, however.  I'm still goin', at least.

Guess that's it for now.  Mostly I wanted to say my typewriter's fixed, to fix it in my mind to go pick it up this weekend.  And then I'll write Eddie, finally.