Well I’ve gone glam around here after the week I’ve had. Sersly? The cat is gone; like songstress Peggy Lee warbled — ‘is that all there is?’ Doubtful but this week it sure seemed like it even though I was provided a most excellent opportunity to rethink my life’s meaning. A media vendor extended a gracious and appreciated invitation to an über swank luncheon mid-week. The arugula salad set rubbed shoulders with six good people who’ve made a difference not only in the city but in the world beyond. I’m talking shit like donating a bunch of wheelchairs to a village in butt-fuck Nairobi so folks can get around and thus improve their quality of life.

But I digress. It was a tear-welling luncheon because one couldn’t help but leave the softly lit rose and hydrangea chic table bouquets without thinking ‘what have I done with my life?’

So that’s what I’ve been thinking about this week. Mostly. Between missing my deceased cat and thoughts of a meeting I’m ill-prepared for next week.

My morning commute takes me by a chi-chi greeting card shop. They have a window display chock-full of Valentine shit already. A silver-plated frame with the word ‘forever’ spelled out in rhinestone crystals naturally caught my eye. “Forever?” Does anything really last forever? And in our need now/consume/throw away world the term seems somewhat antiquated. Forever? Hardly.

Here’s your weekend assignment: go do, go be, go live glam. Buy yourself some sale roses. Treat yourself to a new fragrance. Bake cookies. Buy three or five pears (not four or six mind you because you’ll never get them artfully arranged darling) and quietly sit to ponder their God-like perfection. Maybe that’s “forever.”

Those non-pet owner types won’t ever get this type of commentary because they’ve not experienced the unconditional love a pet brings into one’s everyday life. For the record Matthew was a most excellent cat. He defined the very best years of my long-gone 25+ year partnership. I’ll skip any more fond recollections because I frankly can’t write three sentences regarding his death that doesn’t spiral me further into heartache. I’ll leave it at this: I didn’t cry at my own father’s funeral. But then again he wasn’t a man who knew much about “unconditional love.”