Someone asked if I felt like Carrie Bradshaw from “Sex and the City” when I write this column and all I could think was “Goals!”
As I’m typing away in my living room lit with twinkly lights from the mantle and a fresh Frasier fur, the smell of pine from that and candles wafts through. Morton is asleep in front of the fire snoring and I’m snuggled into the couch. My makeshift office for the last 22 months, it’s cozy and safe here. Back to mask-wearing, closures and pseudo quarantining.
And just like that, it’s 2022 … or “2020 too”.