I’m not having any.

But thanks for looking.

Apparently my post yesterday about registering for second semester graduate school was not very scintillating to anyone.

Aside from my followers, love you, everyone I do–even those of you who I don’t know.

That always makes me want to have a tiny boastful moment.

“Yeah, well, I have followers on my blog who aren’t even friends of mine!”

So there.

Typically there are a few more hits than I got yesterday so I can only assume.

  1. My ex-boyfriend is not stalking me.
  2. Anyone interested in dating me is not checking up on what I’m writing.
  3. I’m just not that scintillating anymore.

Could be any number of things, but I do understand that sometimes a little spice is nice.

And I am spicy.

Just the right amount though.

Nice balance of sugar and spice.

If I do say so myself.

Last week when the grandparents were visiting my charges the grandmother whipped out an old book, it was hers when she was a little girl, off the book shelf and sat on the couch and read Mother Goose rhymes to the boys.

“Sugar and spice and everything nice, that’s what little girls are made of!” The grandmother said with ferocious inflection.

I remember thinking.

Oh no!

Don’t read the rest of the rhyme, don’t do it!

Too late.

“Snips and snails and puppy dog tails, that’s what little boys are made of!”


Not always.

Sometimes they are made of sweetness and sunshine and snuggles.

The youngest one confided in me today that the middle name of his favorite cat, his little transitional toy (thanks post-Freudian theory!) Meow Meow, was Carmen.

I asked what Meow Meow’s last name was.

“Manners!” He replied with a laugh and tossed the white (grey) cat at me.

I gave him a squeeze and smelled his soft, fusty little three and a half year old head and kissed the side of his neck.

“I love you,” I said.

“I love you too, Carmen, and Meow Meow Carmen.”




What a little pie.

No snails here.


None at all.

No snails or frogs or slugs or puppy dog tails.

That used to horrify me.


Little boys made up of puppy dog tails.

Not the mental image I am inclined towards, thank you very much.

If you haven’t figured it out yet.

This blog is not about sex.

Probably won’t be about sex for a while.

But I am ok with that.

Life right now feels right on track.

I got to see my friend from the neighborhood and hang out for a little while.

I had a good day at work.

I did some reading for school.

I confirmed a date for sushi and a movie on Saturday.



I am going to get a Christmas tree after all.

I really want one and there’s time for a little holiday cheer in my life.

I’ll have it up for two weeks and a so I miss having it while I’m in Paris.

My friend convinced me to go for it.

I think he’s right.



I know he’s right, because as soon as he said it I knew I wanted one and I said yes, I’d love a ride.

Hard to get a Christmas tree back to the house on my bike, or my scooter.

Although it would be funny to try it.


My friend is going to help me get one on Saturday.

I am thrilled.

Sure, it means a few less euro to spend in Paris, but, I’m ok with that since it will mean a great deal of happiness and joy for me in my home.

Maybe I’ll even get some mistletoe.

Just because there’s not sex doesn’t mean that there can’t be kissing.



A girl can dream.


By the light of a Christmas tree.

I think I may end up making a little pilgrimage over to Noe Valley on Saturday then too, maybe, I’ll see what I can make happen, but when I was there last weekend I went to this little shop on 24th between Noe and Castro called Past Perfect and they had the sweetest little Christmas ornaments.

I like to get myself an ornament every year.

Slowly replacing the ones an old ex-boyfriend tossed out the year the Isthmus flooded in Madison and they got trashed in the basement.

I carried that resentment around for awhile.

I had not put them in basement and I was aghast later that year, the flood happened in the summer, when I went to unpack my holiday ornaments (ones from when I was three) to that time (I think 24) and I couldn’t find the box.

That box?


That box?

My ex repeated, I um, I thought you knew, it was in the basement when it flooded and I threw it out.



God damn it.

I was mad.

So mad.

I could have saved a lot of them, many were porcelain or ceramic.


Oh well.


So maybe I’ll splurge a little more and get myself a little Christmas ornament or two.

It makes me truly happy to think that I will be getting a tree after all.

It’s the little things.

Seeing someone you love.

Holding hands.

Getting a Christmas tree.

Going to Paris.


Maybe that’s not such a little thing, but I am glad I am not making myself go through the holiday season without the smell of a fresh cut pine in my house.

Yay for Christmas!

Yay for love.

Yay because.

Why the fuck not?




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