From Her Loins

It's no secret that I have no desire to be a breeder. I would be a terrible mother.

But if there's anyone who would (will) be a fabulous mother, it's my friend from high school, Q Valentine.

Take a look at this picture of her precious, angelic, brand new little girl.

This Perfect Day

I went for a walk around Walden Pond today. I probably shouldn't have, since my doctor has told me to stay off my feet until the swelling goes down. (Thirty years old with bunions? Are you kidding me?) But I really needed to get out, go hug some trees.

It was cold but bright, so when the wind calmed down I could feel the warmth of the sun against my skin. The water on the pond is still trying to make up its mind about freezing, and slush was just starting to form around the edges. In a few places, air had been trapped under the ice and came bubbling up to the surface as if some strange undersea creature was letting out its breath in slow, measured exhales.

The winter birds were in full song, darting in and out among bare branches. I played hide and seek with a woodpecker for awhile. He was determined not to let me get a good luck at him, always perching with the sun as a backdrop or darting around to the back of a thick trunk.

Halfway around the pond I started noticing red rose petals strewn along the ground, their bright crimson in stark contrast to the mottled brown leaves underfoot. I have no idea who left the petals -- maybe a heartbroken woman scattering a peace offering from an unfaithful lover. Maybe a black-fingernailed goth girl performing a mystic ritual. Maybe it was just someone who didn't want to put a wilting flower in the garbage can.

It's nice, once in awhile, to have a happy mystery occupy your thoughts while you're out clearing your mind.

The REAL Story of Harry and Sally

I have this friend. In college, he was a good friend, a best friend even. We talked about stuff. Important stuff. Less important stuff. We drank coffee and we drank SoCo. And, yea, there was always a lot of sexual tension. But whatever. In a way, I loved him. Not "loved him loved him," but it probably was love.

And then, one day, we had sex.

And then we didn't talk for a really long time.

And then we started talking again, but only because we pretended that we'd never had sex.

And then we had sex again.

And then, we stopped talking. Not actually. I mean, I still hear from him. We chat occasionally and text often. But we've stopped really talking. Every time I try to have a conversation, it devolves into stories about underwear. Or the lack of underwear. And his efforts to get girls into or out of underwear.

I miss my friend. I miss pointless debates and insightful remarks. I miss having a deep relationship that didn't take a lot of work because we just sort of got each other.

Now, don't get me wrong, I'm glad that I got to experience some of the world by his side. But I don't know that I ever really wanted to trade a friend for a lover. And now that he's not really either, I'm not sure where that leaves me.

And that makes me sad.

Channeling Summer Weather

Self-Service

It's nice to receive compliments - what my dad calls "AttaBoys." It's nice. (It's also good to keep them on file just in case HR calls....) But sometimes, people really don't care about you when they give an AttaBoy. And that ticks me off.

If you ever wanted an example of exactly why Napolean, my boss, drives me nutso, I submit the following evidence:

To herald in our new website with a proper Irish (Irish American) celebration I'd like to invite (on me) the office out to a local pub for a few pints next week when I'm back up. Guinness must be available at the pub selected to make this a proper celebration not to mention I favor Guinness these days if you must know. I suggest a Charles Street establishment if appropriate or other pub within walking distance from the office. KALESY is our guest of honor as the program lead on the website so she can choose the venue. I suggest we do this around 4:00pmish on Wednesday afternoon if that works. Hip hip hurrah!

First off - Wednesday night is my yoga night. He knows this.

Second off - I don't drink Guinness.

Well, it's not like I'm the guest of honor. Oh, wait, yea, I am.

Alas, Napolean's trip north got cancelled, so I got a reprieve.

Karma is wonderful.