Another year with candy but no comers. Don’t know if it’s how our place is lit or maybe that we’re unknown, single folks. You know, you wouldn’t want us poisoning and razorblading and diddling and whatnot.

I think we will very likely move once M. figures out the swing of his new commute. Some place that the natives might call “mid-peninsula,” I think that might also be nearer some fault lines. Woohoo I feel the earth move.

Here’s hoping next year brings some fun little kiddies and cute outfits and shite.

Meanwhile, more candy for us. No problem really.

Rather than writing, I’m screwing around with Photoshop.

For now, I’m pretending that M. is a world traveler. Here he is in Boston and in Arizona’s Painted Desert.

While not obsessing about pictures of my self, I took pictures of other things this weekend.

There was an attempt to see the sunset in SF when I played hooky from work on Friday.

There was a sunset on Saturday over Palo Alto.

These guys might be gophers. Or some other cutesy kind of animal that’s just a rodent in its less than glamorous life.

This may or may not be a red-tailed hawk, as I couldn’t see it’s tail.

And, obviously, some kind of deer.

Whilst rummaging about seeking the “Blue Bird” pic from below, I found some other charmers from my youth.

Here’s where I apparently wanted to look like Mark David Chapman. What the fuck was wrong with me?

In this series, I apparently was about to do my Mt. Holyoke, Smith, Amherst, UMass tour with my lesbian band.

Here I’m convinced I’m just fucking ADORABLE. Although, I suspect it might be one of those moments when I am overly biased.

The roses from my bestest man ever, M. (case you didn’t guess), continue to flourish in rosey splendor.

Five days in and looking dandy. He sure knows how to pick ’em (but not in a migrant worker sense).

I’ve been working in the realm of the not for profit for going onto 20 fucking years. Count ’em, almost 20 with folks who alledgedly work for lofty goals like curing shit and saving people.

Whatever.

When you work in the trenches of the finest of the fine of the goodest of the good of the givenest of the givers, you learn some shit about human nature. Mainly, people suck.

Everyone is motivated by selfish self-interest at some level. The good, kind folks have enough self-reflection to say “Yeah, shit, you got me. It’s all about me.” The dickwads try to convince you they’re looking out for everyone else. Um, hey, smart, helpful people, guess what? I’m bright enough to know when smoke is being blown up my ass.

On the plus side, and reflective of my own self-love, I’ll be rocking a rockstar suite and some comp’ed beverages, as I am the one making all the phone calls and working out the nitty gritty minutia for a company thingamabob meant to build team and whatnot. Call me Mariah Carey; I need bendy straws for my wine.

There will be no “Kumbaya” under my watch, but I will have highspeed Internet.

Quick note to self — You’re walking a dangerous path when you throw out “The Rock” as an interesting, remote place near the city for a retreat to your literal-minded boss. I’m about 86.9 percent sure she was joking when she shot back an email about being intrigued at the possibilites on Alcatraz.

I’m stocking up on raincoats and rubber cement.

Whilst not working on where my work “team” might bond and sleep and talk endlessly about strategy and tactics, I’ve been pondering living. As in, living with a roof over our heads.

At MINIMUM to get something comparable to what I sold, we’d have to drop another 100 Gs over what I charged. Fucking hell.

Probably we’ll just upgrade the rental for awhile, while M. builds his net worth working for the successful competition who lured him away from the little guy. (I’m figuring his new commute will get mighty old during the longer nights/shorter days to come.)

Given the work history, it’s just a painful thing I got pent up, hold in, squeeze together and beat down any oozing to get out work stories. Practically a full day of trying hard to not be a homicidal maniac at worst and flaming asshole at least (seriously, I was a fucking model of team player) today at work is the elephant in my room. But, not enough of a good story, so I’lls just pretend the elephant’s an end table.

I’ll shake it off with this little weasely kiss ass bit. Thing is, you all know, work sucks. It just does. Sure a couple of Type-A CPAs somewhere in the universe get a little wood at the dream of another audit. Maybe even a fair number of people are lucky enough to feel a sense of “personal fulfillment” every now and again. Like, take the Pope, if you dig mass and Jesus and ancient books, he’s probably having fun getting up and going to work in the morning. I mean, shit, he does have an awesome hat and slippers.

The rest of us, though, even on the best day it’s like the cliche goes, “why do you think they call it work?” Every day, day after fucking day, world without end, you’re expected to do shit. Often tiresome, repetitive, frustrating shit.

Still and all, every now and again, I get reminded that I at least get to co-work with some non-assholes. Like there’s a chick who works pretty high up in the business, money, filthy lucre executive food chain who sports a pretty cool tat. I know it, because unlike in the sphincter-tight Northeast, she’s worn shirts that let it shine. And, not only that, she’s easy going with the conversational skills and all. Found out today, she used to work at a true Boston landmark, the Pine Street Inn.

Fuck it, one quick kind of negative work story. So, I’m meeting with a chick who I’ve had some oil and water (actually maybe gasoline and match) convos. Mostly when my boss has put me in the messenger to be shot role. But all sorts of wise folks responsible for my continued payment, asked me to be chill, so I was chill.

Somewhere in our heart to heart with my trying my best to be sweet and communicative and shit, ‘cuz seriously I got the vocab and the mad skills to talk, y’all, I felt the subtle dope slap of “wait a fucking minute.”

She’s letting me know her side of a difficult situation in which she felt painted into a corner and unfairly set up as looking maybe less than sharp or less than sane. OK “fair ‘nuf,” I say both in my head and more or less out loud. And, I say something about, yeah, I understand what you are saying, cool, cool, like, since I felt the same way when I was getting a lot of negative vibrations back on my being an unreasonable, anal retentive bitch, and that wasn’t fair.

Oh, she says, not really the same, because you are.

They’ll never likely see this note. But, the twins in my fam turned 50 on 10/23. That’s 1/2 of a whole centure. The big 5-0.

Happy Birthday(s) to J. and J., born in 1956. Man, that’s hard to get my head around, being as they’re in my very own family. That’s like 350 in dog years.