Too bad I learned my lessons about mixing workplace and weblogging. There’s a lot of fodder out there these days. About all I can say is I’m pretty sure I was the cause for someone to go home, yell at the wife and kids and kick the dog. What can I say? I’m incorrigible.

Of course, that’s the cute, self-deprecating version. Not the movie in my head, where I am super hero.

Meanwhile, back at the California ranch, here’s something I never could do back in my Beantown days. The other day a bag full of tree-ripened tangerines appeared on my desk. In turn, I am to share some of the vast lemon crop. Citrus exchange, fresh and in the middle of January.

On the lemon obsession, it abides.

Here’s my thinking. Given that by nature I am more of a destroyer than a nurturer, and M. ain’t what you’d call handy-like, the trees may be numbered just because of proximity. It is there citrus-y misfortune to have fallen into the hands of non-gardening boobs. Maybe they will survive, as trees have done untended for eons. But, it is just as likely by sheer horticultural ineptitude they will wake up one day to find themselves stripped of leaves and fruit, victims of abuse and neglect.

For that future, I am using what I can until the gravy train stops. Making hay while the sun shines, or some other agricultural-like, farming cliche, as it were.

In other news, M. and I seem to have survived the week despite a shared (emotionally not in some ghastly “watersports” way) gastrointestinal nightmare. M.’s conceding the culprit for our malaise was likely some Oakland-based fried rice, chicken wings and tofu. Tofu, I’m looking at you. All systems seem to have returned to normal, but we are weary from the battle.

I think I vomited for only the second time since moving to California. That stunning record of infrequency may be directly attributable to the fact that I drink exponentially less, measured in gallons not glasses. Ah sobriety.

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