Do it to me one more time...

Monday mornings are rough, and they’re even tougher to take when you’re 8am meeting stands you up. What might make it worse is that you came to work early for that meeting, and that said meeting was with someone who has, perhaps, significant influence on your future. I skipped breakfast, I skipped coffee, I even interrupted June’s morning preparation to haul my curious arse into work…for nothing.

The price tag on retaining my interest just went up.

Aside from that little distraction of a seemingly wasted morning, the infamous lost weekend of Red Soxery was easy to embrace. The Tigers took two of three games. June and I soaked up one, and my good friend, Joe, and I basked in the other. Friday’s shellacking was eased by Saturday’s 12 inning gift, and then Sunday’s blue sky Boston battering closed out a weekend that was easy to smile back at. Not to mention the fact that Zoey has discovered this new found affection that beams out on everything. She’s much more quick to smile (which is ridiculously quick) and more eager to dole out a kiss or a hug without prompting. She squeals “Mummy,” or “Oh Daddy,” with a joyous kind of random enthusiasm, and she is showing signs of connecting more and more dots, linking words, and grasping ideas that she hadn’t just a week before. This child development stuff is crazy.

Now I’d better stop celebrating the weekend, and my lovely daughter, ignore the frustrating snub of my morning’s missed meeting, and pretend to work…yeah, I said pretend. When you leave me hanging I reciprocate. Do that to me one more time and watch how quickly I retreat into a shell of impenetrable apathy and ignorance. I get like that. It's an embarrasssing character flaw.

The rest of my day, barring incident, will be spent planning on how I might run away for six months to watch baseball. Please, fragile youth, bless me with your uneventful weekends.