Last week, one of my very first boyfriends died. It was sudden and shocking, and not just because Terry was relatively young and fit (55, and the longtime outdoors editor of the Tampa Bay Times), but because Terry was so distinctively full of life. Terry was… positivity DISTILLED. No matter when you talked to him, there was always something to be excited about, to look forward to, to achieve or conquer or experience, and a way for him to include you. His enthusiasm was infectious, and no one was immune.
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Each spring, our table is dressed with supple, sensual bouquets of calla lilies. They were planted here well before our arrival by a fool, as I’m reminded once a year when thinking, “Oh that’s right, we have a calla lily plant.”
Michael helped a longtime friend of ours move yesterday, a young woman we’ve watched work extraordinarily hard to achieve her dreams and is now seeing them bear fruit. (With two wild girls, having an EMT-in-training as your regular sitter comes in handy more often than you’d like.)
Or as Uncle Daron said of the 8-year-old, “She wanted BLACK Chucks? Uh oh, she’s gonna be that girl.”
Living the rad girls’ life, showing friends the path.
Fellow hot sleeper and anti-pajama-ite, dreaming twixt Dad and fur.
Sundays at the skatepark. All that organic food and Montessori, just to end up with a pair of hardened street punks.
The best Japanese gummies on the planet flank the 10-year-old’s first chibi commission.
Ginger Grant likes a cat-toes massage whilst I stream.
Nap game on point.