• Weekend eve

    On this weekend eve I am conflicted. There is the obvious, inherent “goodness” that surrounds the end of the workweek. It doesn’t take a minimum wage job slinging hash at the local fast-frozen-and-fried joint to appreciate a Friday. My problem lies in what hazards lay in my path to the Fair Labor Standard’s promised land. I could put a name to this hazard, but I would violate one of my employer’s most sacred rules of employee conduct: “thou shall not discuss policy and procedures in a public forum.” (Blatant Irony intended)

    Suffice it to say that I’m not looking forward to going to work tomorrow. The best thing I’ll be able to say tomorrow evening is that it’s no longer afternoon. The best thing I can say right now is that it’s not afternoon yet.

  • Where once there was something,

    My mind is a blank slate. I had opened up my trusty PowerBook and launched my word processor of choice. I was just about to start typing a magnificent entry, when Software Update worked it’s weekly magic. For the 95% of the world that is not familiar with the Mac OS (we members of the Kauffman Clan hold no grudge against you – only pity), Software Update is a piece of Apple magic that you can set up to pop-up periodically to check for updates to our favorite OS.

    In any case, the idea is gone. One moment I’m basking in delusions of literary genius, next I’m reading about the improvements to the Apache web server. Alas, a strong focus was never my thing.

    Yes kids, my moment of divine inspiration proved to be as fleeting as the Bucs Super Bowl triumph. They’re both long gone.

  • Moments

    Dim light from a child’s nightlight washes the room in an orange glow. You stand still; your gaze fixed on a small, stuffed Snoopy. Your infant son is in your arms; his head turned sideways, breathing restfully into your shoulder. The crown of his head rests in the cranny between your lip and nose, his sparse hair provoking the slightest tickle. You smell the scent common to everyone of his kind: the baby smell. Your gaze wanders aimlessly from the boyish pastel curtains to the lovingly arranged crib, where your son will spend the better part of his first year.

    Your entire world, for all that you could care in that moment, rests peacefully between your shoulders.