Dumb Stupid Love

I'm rooted in moody nostalgia today, and I don't expect that to let up anytime soon. This weekend is Niki's memorial. I'll be going to my childhood home to attend, and also to see my family, and as I prepare it's making my heart do all kinds of swirly things. Because of distance I've been able to remain in semi-denial about my friend's passing for the last six months, and I think the service, and seeing Nik's husband and her mom and other family members, as well as my own homegrown mutual besties, will be a major shock to the system. There might be a start at closure, but more likely this is just going to start bringing everything up for really real. It's a good thing, a healthy thing, but I don't have a handle on how tough it's going to be. It's not like I can rehearse for grief or be ready in any way, just gotta take it as it comes and let it wash over me and let us all work on healing together in our company and shared remembrance. I expect a lot of laughing, a lot of crying, a lot of reminiscing, a lot of drinking, a lot of unknown.

The thing about love is that it's the worst, because when you lose the ones you love it hollows you right out. The love for that person will never go away, but for awhile it becomes displaced, inverted, a jackhammer gouging at your soul, leaving you marked. Every time it happens it attacks in a different, awful way. But love is also the best, the only and the essential. It can't fill in the craters of loss or make the marks disappear. It can't bring anyone back. But it can turn the scars into luminous tribute. It can whisper into the heart and tell it, "Hey, you're not alone. We'll get through this together." Because so many people loved Niki, the love we all share keeps her alive in some way. It's not the same as having her here, not by a long shot. And my life would be easier, less painful right now, if I'd never known and loved this woman. But baby, that's the trick of love. It's worth the pain, in the long run, to have had Niki's shining star in my life. It's better to have felt the loss of a deep and lasting friendship than to never had known it at all. It doesn't mean my friend's death isn't still the awfullest thing. It  is, to me. But I've got to go on, we've all got to, and love is what's left to work with.

SYTYC Recap? Not Really

Conspicuously missing from my blog this season: "So You Think You Can Dance" recaps. It's not because I don't want to write them--I actually think the build up to this year's top 20 episode has been uncommonly entertaining and talent-packed--it's just that by the time I get around to watching the episodes, who even cares any more? The top 20 was revealed last night, and I won't get to watch the show until tomorrow so for those fellow enthusiasts please don't spoil it for me, OK? I know the "green mile" is filled with terrible fake-outs and it's a relief when all that rigamarole is through, but the suspense in real time is part of the fun for me. Also if Fik-Shun or scrunchy face Katie Holmes or the big guy tapper who has made it all the way to the last round the last couple of years don't get picked I'd rather not know about it just yet. Thanks babes.

I realize how very else little I've got to say, so here's some Naughty by Nature to make it worth your sticking around (if you did).

Little Rich Little

HR does one celebrity impersonation, and it's of this guy:



Charles Osgood, dapper bespectacled host of "CBS Sunday Morning." I've related my affinity for this show in the past, but now my child has signed on with his own seal approval. Until recently I thought the show was just the background part of our lazy Sunday ritual, him enjoying the intro with the Chuck Mangione horn solo (he calls it "The Trumpet Show") and me picking and choosing which segments would warrant my attention. This past Sunday though, when there was a fill-in for old Charles, HR was devastated. His favorite story for the past three days is reliving the moment when another person dared introduce the show. It's hilarious to me, and obvious that I'm raising my child to be kind of wiener, both in him liking the show and obsessing over the seemingly innocuous story. Oh, and the impression, which is basically him holding up a pair of fake glasses to his face and saying, "I'm Charles Osgood."

Wiener or no, I think the kid's got a bright future.

Oh Brotha

I don't like to talk about the particulars of my job, and I won't change that policy today, but I have to say my jaw is on the floor from the perfect storm of gnarliness that awaited my arrival this morning. I have not been personally wronged, there's just a whole lot of wrong in the air and we're doing our best to deal with it and move on.

Luckily I'm fortified with goodness following a weekend that included an hour long massage, a Greek festival (with loukemades to go, of course), beautiful weather, a book I can't put down and lots of time to hang out with my dudes. Go on and throw it at me, I am titanium.

Still, I'm really looking forward escaping to Maine this coming weekend, can't say I don't wish I were going today.

Comedown

And so, it is over. And it was fine, even kind of fun in parts. I'm happy I don't have to work this sort of thing every day, but it's not like I was digging ditches. Everyone was pleasant and well behaved, based on initial reports we made some decent fundage, and I got home in time to spend a few minutes with HR before he had to go to bed. Plus I had the best diet coke of my life from the bar (I don't like soda much at all, the combination of thirst and caffeine withdrawal made all the difference) and I got to see a rainbow on the way home. The little things, you know.

Today is sort of chill, and I appreciate that most of all.

Have you ever seen the movie D.E.B.S? It's admittedly stupid, but I love it. And it has a great soundtrack. I think of it whenever I hear this legitimately great song.

Maybe I Should Re-Watch Caddyshack, For Professional Reasons

I just accidentally ate the entire order of thai basil and garlic chili sauce veggies over rice that my wonderful bosses bought for me. The dish made me do it, really, because it was so delicious and I just knew that no amount of reheating would restore that level of deliciousness. No regrets. Thai Binge 4 Life.

It's golf tournament central at the old workplace, as we gear up for our lone gigantic annual fundraising event, and though I disappeared into that gaping maw of preparation weeks ago, we're finally at zero hour. Or close enough. Tomorrow I'll be off site from dark until dark registering people and ringing up their silent auction purchases. There are two positives to this: 1) it'll be an interesting change of pace and 2) when the day is over, it'll be over. Until next year, anyway. Maybe there's even a third advantage, which the potential to get outside a bit. Other than that it'll be a long day, I might not get to set eyes on HR for its entirety, and if you have ever worked any kind of charity event you know there are always a few prerequisite entitled jerks. It just comes with the territory.

Oh bloody well. Off to find some breath mints (holy garlic!) and get my eyes back into spreadsheet focus.

Anatomy of a Treat

A treat, to me, is a hot fudge sundae. A pedicure. A much-awaited book and uninterrupted time for getting lost in it. Running is not a treat. Not usually. But last night I got to run home from work in the zero-humidity beautiful evening, and it felt like all three of those other things combined. I didn't even want to listen to my ipod, just enjoy my thoughts and the sounds of the city.

It's all in the context. The aforementioned treats are categorized as such because they are rare, and the outdoor run has become an elusive butterfly in my current situation. It's not a complaint, just what it is. There was one time in my life where I identified as a runner, but now I'm firmly in the camp of "person who runs for exercise." I still get joy from the movement here and there, I'm never sorry that I did it after I've run, but it's hard to get excited about jumping on the treadmill at 9 p.m. when the couch seems like so much more reasonable of an option. I do love my treadmill, both for its convenience and its pesky tendency to cancel out my excuses ("I just don't feel like it" overpowers the machine's pull about a quarter of the time) but I tell you, having a chance to break out of the routine really helps. I'm hoping to get out and run more this summer, once a week at most, and even that will take some creative scheduling. Maybe I can pull it off.

Either way, no1curr what I'm doing or not doing. I'm just saying that if you live in the Greater Boston area and you like to do your workouts in the out-of-doors, there's never been a better time than now. If you can do your thing outside whenever you want to, dedicate a run to me. And reward yourself with whatever qualifies as a treat to you.