You know how when you haven’t done something in a while, and then you finally do it again, you enjoy it so much that you’re not sure why you ever stopped?

And no, people, I’m not talking about sex. I’m talking about writing. On my own blog.

I’m not sure what happened. I mean, yeah, I’ve been busy planting a garden, traveling to San Francisco to see my brother and family, keeping up with the progress of my friend who got her mother’s kidney and going to my grandmother’s funeral in Fayetteville, NC. Not Arkansas. But that’s not what it was. No, my mind just stopped wanting to write. Not a writer’s block, more like a writer’s apathy. 
But here’s the thing: the more I write, the more I want to write. And I’m starting to write more. Again. But just in case you don’t believe me, about being really busy the last two months, here’s a rundown of what’s been going on:
Went to California to visit my brother.

Watched my daughter get braces.

Celebrated my son’s 14th birthday.

Lost a few pounds. And gained them back.

Planted a garden with my kids.

Went to my first professional golf tournament and walked the entire course. 

Had a colposcopy (with good results).
Started an 8 week C.E.R.T. (Community Emergency Response Team) course. (That’s me with my hand on my partner’s shoulder. Feel safer now?)

Went to my step-niece’s Bat Mitzvah.
Got the results of my son’s ScoliScore.
Waited with bated breath as my friend underwent surgery to receive a kidney lovingly donated by her mother. (Both are doing great.)

Watched my garden grow big, beautiful zucchini blossoms.

Went to my grandmother’s funeral.
Colored my hair. Twice. 
Made blueberry muffins. Twice.

Ate radishes from our garden.
And watched my husband people watch at South Beach’s Delano Hotel, his first time there. And then watch his jaw drop at spending $50 plus tip for three drinks.
There, now that we’re all caught up, I can tell you the truth about sex. If you don’t have it for a while, like for a few weeks, and then you have it, you’ll hear not angels in the background but Madonna. “Like a virgin. Touched for the very first time.”

At least I did.