Value

I've always found it difficult to ask for what I'm due. I'm confident in the quality of my work, but when the time comes to ask that I be properly compensated for my efforts, that confidence all but evaporates. So I put off doing so, and do more work, instead.

Valentine

Not a red rose or a satin heart.

I give you an onion.
It is a moon wrapped in brown paper.
It promises light
like the careful undressing of love.

Here.
It will blind you with tears
like a lover.
It will make your reflection
a wobbling photo of grief.

I am trying to be truthful.

Not a cute card or a kissogram.

I give you an onion.
Its fierce kiss will stay on your lips,
possessive and faithful
as we are,
for as long as we are.

Take it.
Its platinum loops shrink to a wedding-ring,
if you like.

Lethal.
Its scent will cling to your fingers,
cling to your knife.

— Carol Ann Duffy

Cards

Last year — I think it was last year, anyway — I had no end of trouble trying to find Valentine's Day cards I liked for my son's class. (Maybe I shouldn't have waited 'til the very last minute.) This year, once I noticed that Valentine's Day was quickly coming up at the end of the week, I decided we'd make our own.

My seven-year-old lost interest after crafting a very elaborate card (and using virtually all of the glitter glue) that will be given to his mother, while I spent the next several hours doodling on large sheets of pink construction paper. (This was a habit I developed while bored during meetings.) These were cut into a series of smaller cards.

Promises

I never do this — I'm usually careful not to do this! — I've all but promised my seven-year-old that tomorrow will be a snow day. (I think I'm more excited about this than he is.)

Note

I was dusting a bookshelf in my office this evening, when I came across a small yellow Post-It™ Note with a phone number written on it, on top of a book. I can't remember whose phone number it is. I'm not even sure if it ended up there by accident, or if it needed to be hidden.

Indestructible

My son's Betta is as durable as they come — in the year or so since we brought it home, I've been through three (perhaps four) different fish, while my son's Betta has survived in a tank that was much too small, with water that was never changed as often as it should have been, and far too cold in the when the weather got cool.

(I thought I was doing better with the large glass cube in my office, decorated with a selection of rocks and a stem of bamboo — but I haven't been quite so lucky. I added a small heater to keep the water reasonably warm, but I worry that it's still not enough.)

I gave in and bought my son a small aquarium for his Betta. (It was on sale.) It has a gentle filter, and a small heater, and the fish seems much more comfortable. A Betta does not, by nature, seem to be all that active, but my son's fish seems to enjoy exploring his new environment. I wish mine were a bit more lively.

I let my son choose the decorations — he was thrilled to finally have the opportunity to buy one of those tacky aquarium ornaments he'd admired for so long. I tried to nudge him in a sensible direction, but he had very definite ideas about what he wanted.

Sketches: Fifties Blondes

Fifties Blondes is (or will be) a collection of photographs of models and actresses from the 1950s, most now forgotten. I haven't gotten any further than these sketches (and others hastily scribbled on my iPod while waiting in traffic), so there's no cover to show yet. But this is the work-in-progress.